Apophasis
by cheesecakeplz
Summary: World War I had been terrible; World War II had been even worse. But no amount of wars or warnings could have prepared them for this.
1. Para colmo de males

**To Make Matters Worse**

Apophasis, v.; affirming something by denying it.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Hetalia. Wish I did, but alas. :U

* * *

Some days, Antonio thought, were just not worth waking up to. The start of the end of his world happened to be one of those days.

Stumbling over yet another charred piece of debris and brushing himself free of soot, the Spaniard vaguely wondered what in the world had warranted such an attack on a neutral country. With a single glance at the sky, he remembered that he wasn't kidding anyone about his 'neutrality'—not that there was anyone to kid, now that this whole mess had happened.

"_Dios mio_."

Coughing into the crook of his arm, he calmly took note of the damage. One minor injury to the forehead—Pamplona hadn't taken the brunt of the attack, that much was certain, but it still stung somewhat—and another to the right leg. Antonio bent to examine it, lightly brushing his fingers over the burn; he winced, surprised at the pain the simple touch had brought. _Well_, he mused to himself, _this might be a problem_.

Disorientation is a nasty thing for a nation in a state of crisis. Not being able to tell the amount of the damage is substantially worse.

With a sharp intake of breath, Antonio brought himself back to his feet. He wondered mildly if Alvaro was alright, if this had affected him, too, but then assured himself his brother would be fine. He had seen worse. Or had he? It was difficult to remember these sort of things when his heart seemed to be surging frantically in his chest. He laughed at the blurring, pounding sound in his ears, pausing only to grin at the stream of smoke that blew from his mouth and curled slowly, calmly into the air to join the thick smog that had settled upon the country of Spain.

Antonio wondered, not for the first time in the past few years, if this entire war had just been an overly elaborate dream. Perhaps he would be able to close his eyes for a moment, gasp sharply, and wake up to see that dear tomato-red face beside him, gold-brown eyes attempting to mask concern with aggravation. His name would be cursed without malice but love, and he would entwine their fingers, and he would laugh, and the other would join in, and the way he had lived would continue as it always had, with the Spanish sun pouring in through the windows as it had for countless years.

He attempted waking only to be sorely disappointed.

The smile fell from his face and in his anger, he kicked over a potted plant with his good leg. The pot shrieked as it smashed into a hundred fragments, spilling soil across the cobblestone floor. The tomato that had been hanging loosely from its stem fell and splattered by Antonio's feet.

Antonio stared at the broken plant for what seemed like hours before bending to fruitlessly scoop the dislodged soil back into the remains of the pot. His hands fell, useless, to his sides when he realized he was, again, trying to trick his own mind into thinking fixing a pot would be fixing the world.

Antonio then proceeded to ease himself into a sitting position, where he rested his head on his knees and foolishly attempted to will his soot-covered, smog-skied country back to sunshine.

* * *

A/N: Dios Mio, Spanish; my god

Whoooosh. This fic is a real downer. Sorry guys. Maybe I should've written something a little more positive for my first fic, huh? Poor Spain. I'm so horrible to my favourite characters. :D

The end of the world has always interested me in a sense, I guess. I like to think about how different people from different cultures, personalities, etc. would deal with it. (I'm such a sick person ahaha!) Hetalia is my current fandom, and the characters from it have (obviously) distinct characteristics and cultures. Therefore it is my victim for this plotline.

lol some hints of Spamano in there. It's definitely my OTP, but my apologies to readers who don't like the pairing. It'll pop up again later, so...sorry, I guess? Also, yes, I fail at writing, but constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated to help improve? ;u;


	2. Across the board

**Affects Us All**

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Hetalia. End of story.

* * *

There were a large number of things Arthur hated about the world, and, if asked, he could rant them off faster than a speeding bullet to anyone willing to listen. The reason at the top of his list was that the one he wished to burden most might not be alive to hear them. This fact alone nearly killed Arthur the moment he regained consciousness.

A quiet bubble of a sob burst from his chest for the third time that morning alone, although the reasons had not been the same as the previous two. The first had escaped in that horrible hour of recognition that _oh God London's been destroyed where is Alfred he was just here a moment ago where is he I'm alone oh God--_

Arthur had prayed to every deity he had known in his too-long life to leave him something when this happened. None of them had answered. Arthur had cried again.

Scrubbing at his eyes with soot-blackened hands, he attempted regaining his calm by talking to himself. Any company was good company, at the moment, and it didn't seem as though his faerie friends would be returning any time soon. "Alright, Arthur old boy, man up, now, alright? Stiff upper lip and all that. Yes. Stiff upper lip. Easy. Deep breaths. Take it easy...that's right."

He repeated this mantra aloud as he staggered down the dilapidated streets of London, hugging himself in a pitiful attempt at self-comfort. The Briton walked until the pain in his knees could not be ignored; his joints hissed in protest as he settled against the nearest stable building and lowered himself to the ground.

He quickly found he never wanted to get up again. Pride be damned—no one was around to see him, anyways.

Or so he thought.

"My, _Angleterre_, I see you've gone to pieces without me."

Arthur opened his eyes only to be met with a beard-lined face that was far too familiar to his liking. Or foreign. He wasn't over his initial shock enough to remember.

His response seemed to come naturally, in any case. "Shut up, you git. You don't seem any better than me. That beard of yours looks more god-awful than usual." Arthur retorted just as the Frenchman bent to scoop his long-term nemesis into his arms. Arthur didn't bother struggling; he was exhausted, and Francis's arms were relatively warm—a welcome change from the bitter London rain and flakes of white ash that fell flatly to the ground, dissolving onto the pavement with the other precipitation.

"Francis?"

"_Oui_, Arthur?" Arthur hadn't remembered Francis's voice being so hoarse, but decided not to question it.

"Why are you doing this?"

This elicited a chuckle from the blond; Arthur felt the rumble from the angle his head was positioned against Francis's chest.

"Payback, _mon cher_. From World War II. Perhaps you've forgotten, what with your _défectueuses du cerveau _and all?"

Arthur was silent for a moment before remembering Francis had insulted as well as answered him. As an automatic reflex he motioned to punch the smug Frenchman in the jaw, but found his arm not entirely responding to the commands the brain was sending it and fell to curl, limp, on his stomach. Francis rose his eyebrows, but did not comment upon the matter. He merely quickened his pace, humor suddenly gone from his eyes.

There was a uncomfortably long pause between the two Nations. Francis decided to break the monotony first.

"I'm taking you back to my house, Arthur. It's still standing, somewhat, and warmer. We can sort ourselves out there easier than here, _vous êtes d'accord_?"

"Where do you think Alfred is?"

No response. Arthur felt his eyes burn for the fourth time that day. He turned his head into the crook of his own arm so that Francis would not notice the sudden red that rimmed his eyelids.

"_Je ne suis pas sûr, _Arthur. _Je ne suis pas sûr de rien du tout, aujourd'hui_."

* * *

A/N: Translations;  
Angleterre- England  
oui- Yes  
mon cher- my dear  
défectueuses du cerveau- defective brain  
vous êtes d'accord- you agree?  
Je ne suis pas sûr. Je ne suis pas sûr de rien du tout, aujourd'hui- I am not sure. I am not sure of anything now.

Would you guys believe me if I said this was my first fic? You probably would. ;u;;

Anyway, if there's anything wrong with my translations, please tell me! I'd really like to be linguistically correct with this fic, seeing as it's based so much on...well, languages.

Also, my headcanon decides that Nations call each other by their human names or country names based on familiarity/relationship. France and England have known each other for a long time, and they've got this whole love/hate thing going on--hence the human names. However, they only use their human names around humans, and their country names around fellow Nations...lol my headcanon is so complicated, it'd take ages to explain it all. But _Angleterre _sounds cool so I wanted to use it derp derp.

Next up: Poland and Finland! And more angst and apocalypse-ness! Woo! :D


	3. Ei sota yhtä miestä kaipaa

**War Does Not Long For One Man**

Disclaimer: Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya. c:

* * *

"Come on, _Puola_. Get up. You can't just sit here like this, you'll catch cold."

Tino tugged weakly at the thin blonde's fingers, which had little to no response. Tino dropped Feliks's hand and fidgeted, glancing around. He felt so unsafe, out here in this barren land so unlike what he had remembered of Feliks's country. The Finn sighed, a trail of smog hanging stagnantly in front of him after he did so. He scuffed the ground with his boot, willing himself to remain patient.

Throughout the war, Tino had always wished it would have been ended somewhere else further away. Then again, it_ had_ been one of his neighbors who had began it...though America was certainly not without blame.

He also wished he hadn't volunteered to find survivors.

Tino wished for a lot of things, nowadays.

Tino shook himself back to the present and lowered to Feliks's eye level. A pause. He cleared his throat and began smiling in a way that he prayed was reassuring; when he spoke again, his voice was that of a person he knew would be able to inspire some sort of life in the Pole.

"Please, Feliks, we really need to get out of here. It's too cold for you now. I'll make some _Kvieèiø sriuba—_won't that be tasty? Come on now, please, Feliks."

At this, Feliks's head jerked up, glazed green eyes staring at Tino with some odd emotion that made the Finn feel sick to his stomach. It was times like these he wished he didn't have such talent at acting.

"Liet?"

Blindly, the Pole reached forward for Tino's hands and gripped them in his own. Tino flinched at the contact but allowed himself to be held for a moment as his hands were examined by pale fingers.

Tino then came to a disturbing realization.

"_Puola_, can...can you see me?"

Feliks lifted his head and stared for an uncomfortable amount of time in Tino's general direction—it seemed as though he couldn't quite decipher the Finn's physical position. Tino's heart sank into the pit of his stomach, and he suddenly felt as though he might choke.

"It's totally white, _Finlandia_." Tino knew he hadn't been speaking of the landscape.

Swallowing strongly, Tino pressed the palms of his hands to his eyes and sat into the feathery layer of ash. Feliks remained still, sight trained on something distant.

"What happened, _Finlandia_? Even though Liet warned me and stuff, I just, like..." Feliks's hands were suspended in mid-action for a moment, distress clouding the Pole's face, until he brought slowly them into his lap. His emotion fled with the gesture, leaving the little blond at the mercy of the world for what was not the first time in many years.

Another pause. Feliks's head dipped and hung, almost lifeless. Tino stood and fidgeted before ducking down once again to grasp the Pole's colourless hand.

"Come on, _Puola._ We need to go."

This time, Feliks obeyed, and allowed himself to be led onto the bent train tracks of Warsaw. Even Tino's senseless and continual chatter could not fill the suffocating expanse of dead land.

* * *

A/N: Translations;

Finlandia, Polish- Finland (no dip, Sherlock. =7=; )  
Puola, Finnish- Poland

Kvieèiø sriuba_- _Lithuanian wheat berry soup usually eaten for supper.

Mmmmyeah this chapter was pretty depressing...but I guess this entire fic is a real downer, like I said before hahaha! Finland really shouldn't have volunteered for finding survivors, but he was too nice and offered anyway. More on that later.

And just to be perfectly clear, I have no negative bias towards any country in this story. I literally just thought up a scenario and chose two random Nation-tans. It's unfortunate for them, but I just wanted to put it out there that I'm not out to offend anyone. I really hope I haven't already. ;u;;

Also, Wheat Berry soup sounds really good. Maybe I should try and make it sometime...

Please review, if you would be so kind~


	4. Cane che abbaia non morde

**A Barking Dog Seldom Bites**

Disclaimer: Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya~

* * *

_  
"Gesù Cristo, che fa male_!" Lovino screeched to no one in particular, gripping his sides so tightly one would've thought he was attempting to crush himself. Which, in fact, he was.

"_Fratello_, please! You'll hurt yourself even more—here, um, hold still a minute, let me see the damage—no, no, don't hyperventilate! Oh, _dio mio_, Lovino--!" Feliciano whimpered, hands fluttering uselessly over his brother's ever-growing wound.

Lovino opened his eyes only to glare fiercely at his sibling. Feliciano smiled weakly back, exposing all but a few missing teeth. "It'll be okay, _Fratello--"_

_"_Okay? Okay?! You listen to me, _idiota--_I've just been shot—yeah, freakin' shot, you stupid clod—and you have the guts to tell me it'll be okay?!" Lovino's hoarse voice rose to an octave higher than Feliciano thought humanly possible. The Italian vaguely wondered if his brother had ever considered opera as a career as he began patting Lovino's clenched fist in an act of comfort.

"You really shouldn't yell so much, Fratello. It isn't good for your blood pressure."

"Blood pressure, my foot. I won't have any blood left after this, _maledizione tutto_." Lovino took to clenching his sides again, going silent. Feliciano sat useless at his side, patting his hand every so often and grinning like the fool he was. Eventually the smile fell, and he brought his hand back to interlock in front on his knees. Silence echoed throughout the remains of Venice, save for Lovino's somewhat labored breathing.

"So. Do you suppose we should remove the bullet now, or later?"

Lovino's fists unclenched from about his sides and moved to his face, where they stayed pressed against his forehead as if to ward off a headache. The elder brother then gave a low moan of irritation before responding. "How stupid are you, anyway? _Gesù Cristo_. If the Mafia taught me anything, it was that you don't mess with the damn bullet—just leave it be. I'll be fine in a while." Lovino's voice seemed to strain at certain intervals. This did not help Feliciano's already frayed nerves.

"If Ludwig were here, he'd know what to do. Ludwig always knows what to do, he's so smart and so good with--"

Lovino removed his knuckles from his eyes, snarling. "I thought I told you never to mention that _patate bastardo_ in front of me again, moron! Hell, the stupid Kraut is probably lying dead in some ditch right now, and good riddance, too--"

"Don't say that, _Fratello_, please don't say things like that--"

"I'll say whatever the hell I want to, _mannaggia a te_! The Kraut's dead, dead, and Antonio probably is too, so don't you dare tell me what not to say!!" Lovino bellowed back as fiercely as his voice would allow, cheeks flaming an angry red.

The words held between the brothers. Feliciano averted his eyes and bit his lip, embracing his legs to his chest. Lovino caught his breath before rolling over facing away from his brother, again holding his afflicted side. The brothers did not speak for a long while, with Feliciano sobbing openly and Lovino concentrating on ignoring the world around him.

"Do you really think Lud--he's dead, _Fratello_?" Feliciano croaked, his voice thick with mucus and tears.

There was an agonizing pause. Feliciano wiped his nose on his well-tanned arm before turning once again to his brother.

"Don't get your hopes up. That's all I'm saying."

Feliciano's tearful expression soon grew empathetic, and he scooted closer to lay a warm hand over Lovino's. The Italian grinned sleepily, red-rimmed eyes crinkling at the corners as he did so. To Feliciano's surprise, Lovino returned the gesture.

"It'll be okay, _Fratello_."

* * *

A/N: Translations:  
Gesù Cristo, che fa male- Jesus Christ, that hurts

Fratello- brother  
dio mio- oh my god

idiota- idiot

maledizione tutto- curse it all  
patate bastardo- potato-bastard  
mannaggia a te- damn you

...wow, lots of Italian in this chapter. Hope it's all correct--I used an online translator lol. I'm really paranoid about those things. =7= Poor Romano. His brother doesn't really take anything seriously except for Germany and pasta hahah!

Anyways--the Italies didn't really get most of the damage, I suppose. Romano was shot by a panicking citizen, though. Luckily for him, my headcanon decrees that Nation-tans heal quickly over minor wounds. Romano is just a bit of a drama...king. He really should consider an operatic career or something.


	5. Ein Unglück kommt selten allein

**A Disaster Seldom Comes Alone**

Disclaimer: Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya. Derp derp.

* * *

Gilbert could hardly remember the last time he had felt so utterly—what was the word? Ah, _ja_-- crushed. The end of World War I was the only time that could come to mind, and even his dissolution had been less painful than this. This war had been something else entirely.

The end of the world. Huh. He never thought he'd live to see the day.

"Sweetheart, give me your hands, won't you? They're almost turning blue, you silly thing." Elisaveta laughed, her usually flowing voice now rough with the smoke that hung like a curse over Innsbruck. Roderich paused before obediently offering her his fingers—they looked so odd to Gilbert, un-gloved and covered in indistinguishable filth. Not the hands he remembered the Austrian having at all. These hands didn't, couldn't belong to a refined pianist like Roderich. It just wasn't how things were.

"And you, Gil—stop being a _madár-agy_ and come over here by the fire!" The Hungarian urged as she waved him over to her free side. Her tone was significantly less soft towards Gilbert—something he had grown used to over the years--but it still stirred warmth in his stomach to hear the almost maternal endearment under her harsh words.

"Who're you calling bird-brain, _Pfanne verrückt Dame_?" Gilbert laughed airily as he took his seat beside his friend, holding his hands out to the feeble bonfire that Elisaveta had built from rubble and twigs a few hours earlier. Many bonfires similar to the Nations' dotted Innsbruck's streets tonight, Gilbert noticed with a sniff. None were quite as awesome as theirs, though, he was sure.

Roderich coughed strongly into his handkerchief and Elisaveta rubbed calming circles on his back, a ritual that had grown common over the past few days. Gilbert didn't need to look to see the handkerchief had been stained with red; the sight always made him want to tear his hair out, or puke. Either one. "Gilbert, would you stoke the fire, please?" _Mein Gott,_ _how someone can be so casual after hacking up a glob of blood is beyond me_. Gilbert thought to himself wryly, glancing sideways to the Austrian's pale, slightly marred face and off-blue eyes looking expectantly back. _Just like a freakin' prince, I swear_. "Yeah, sure. Can't do anything for yourself, can you, _Sie kränklich Aristokrat_?" The albino Prussian snickered as he bent forward to poke the flames into growth. His gaze flickered to Elisaveta as her mouth twitched downward—a telltale sign of offense—and shied away. Even when weakened, the Hungarian was a terror when angry; she certainly never let Gilbert forget that fact.

More breathing difficulty came from Roderich, which soon escalated into explosive wheezing. Elisaveta drew her husband closer to her side, whispering rapid, soothing words in his ear whilst petting his disheveled hair.

The fit was over almost as soon as it had started, but it had left Roderich trembling so violently that he failed to wipe his mouth free of blood. Elisaveta's breath hitched as she did the task for him, telling the Austrian, "you're alright, _szerelmem_, you're fine now" in a voice that so plainly told she didn't believe her own words. Gilbert stood and left the makeshift camp as they embraced, holding each other so tightly, so lovingly, that it made Gilbert's heart sink to know one—or both--were not going to last much longer.

Gilbert kicked the ashes into the air and swore aloud, not caring that there was a family with small children nearby as he passed. Hell if they were going to keep their innocence in a god-awful world like this, anyhow. It really wasn't fair.

_First Lud--West, and now Roderich. Next thing you know Elisa's gonna kick the bucket on me._ The albino thought morosely to himself, his stomach twisting at the mere thought of his brother. _Gott, _sometimes he wondered how he had lived through Ludwig's death again, although this time had far outweighed the first in terms of gruesomeness, what with Berlin having been completely detonated and--

Gilbert suddenly bent over and vomited onto a slanted curb. He gasped again and again, attempting to clear those burning images from his mind. _Don't think about it, Gil, think happy thoughts, don't think about it don't don't don't--_

"Gilbert? Is that you?"

The voice sounded familiar, but _Gott_, it was so broken and tired and it made Gilbert's stomach roll once again to think what the owner looked like now. However, Gilbert would not lose his pride over something so trivial. Casually, the albino rose from the dirtied curbside, cleaning himself off as he did so. He was careful not to look at who was addressing him. "Depends on who's asking."

Weak, pleasant laughter confirmed Gilbert's fears. "Don't tell me you've got amnesia, now, Gil. That would really be terrible." Antonio continued, grinning a toothy grin that caught the glare of a nearby streetlight and Gilbert's eye. The Prussian scoffed, "Nah. If anyone's got amnesia, it'd be you, you dumba--" Words fell off Gilbert's tongue and onto the ground as he caught full sight of his friend. The Spaniard was covered from head to toe in all kinds of grime—his outfit, a ragged sweater and frayed brown pants, was caked with soot, his curly brown hair matted stiff with blood, and one leg was shoddily dressed in aged bandages that trailed behind him as if he were one of Egypt's mummies-- Gilbert honestly wouldn't put the comparison behind him—not to mention Antonio's face, which was barely recognizable with an open, blackening wound to the forehead that spilled down his features and trickled lazily down to his chin. The sight almost made him gag all over again.

"What?" Antonio asked, forest-green eyes still joyful and oblivious, "Is there something on my face?"

Gilbert's mouth opened, ready for a barrage of childish insults, but closed when he decided Antonio would be too stupid to recognize any of them. "You look like hell." The albino settled for that blunt tidbit of information for Antonio to mull over. Antonio responded a few moments later with furrowed eyebrows and a sigh. "I know. I walked all the way here. Have you seen Lovi?" Ah. Of course he'd want to know about his precious little bad-tempered Italian. Gilbert would have laughed if Antonio hadn't looked so damn desperate.

"_Nein_." before the Spaniard's spirits would crumble, Gilbert continued; "but I found Elisaveta, Roderich, and Lu--" Again, bile rose in his throat at the name, and he struggled to keep it down. How humiliating. Antonio waited patiently for his friend to begin again.

"My brother's dead. Found 'im near Switzerland's territory. The entire country is a wasteland, I tell ya. Didn't see a single live person the entire time I was there." The Prussian continued in monotone, directing his gaze to the pavement.

The curbside was quiet for a long while. Both Antonio and Gilbert avoided each others' eyes; Antonio for the sake of prayer, Gilbert for fear of showing weakness. Nearby, a woman burst into hysterical tears, howling at the sky like a wounded animal. Gilbert bellowed a command to be silent, and the woman obeyed, her cry lowering to a pathetic sob. Antonio shifted nervously from foot to foot.

"_Lo siento_."

"Nothing you could've done."

"I feel as though this is my fault somehow."

"It's everyone's fault, 'Tonio. We messed up. You, me, _mein bruder_, all of Europe, the whole damn world...we had this coming. It was only a matter of time before America snapped, we all knew that. Wish he hadn't dragged us all down with him, though. Goddamn." Gilbert kicked the ground again and scowled. Antonio seemed to be at a loss for words.

"_Lo siento_."

"Stop apologizing, Antonio."

"I meant for your brother. I had never imagined that he would...well, that he wouldn't be here. He was a very strong country."

"_Ja_. He was very strong."

"Like you. You two were a lot alike. I always thought it was funny how two brothers could be so different but so the same, in some senses." Antonio gave a feeble grin at this, placing his bloodied hands in his pockets as if he were ashamed to show them, to prove he too was part of this man-made apocalypse. Gilbert didn't bother to hide it; he was too tired for denial.

"America did always have the habit of messing things up, didn't he?" The Spaniard tried again at conversation, to which Gilbert gave a subtle nod of agreement. His thoughts were elsewhere as he stared in the direction of Roderich and Elisaveta, expression carefully guarded. Antonio piped up again, ignorant of how deep in contemplation the Prussian seemed to be—which was a rare thing in itself.

"So, how are Austria and Hungary? Are they okay? Well, as 'okay' as one could be with the way the world is at the moment, and--"

"He's dying."

A pause. The words hadn't seemed to sink in. "What?"

"I said, Roderich is dying. The ashes or whatever the hell you want to call them are clogging his lungs. Which means a lot of his people are suffering from the same thing. And there aren't as many doctors around as there were before the war, obviously, so...yeah. He's screwed." Gilbert finished, his hands subconsciously retreating to his pockets. Antonio's mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, and when he spoke, his voice was a whisper; "_Dios mio._"

Gilbert just laughed. "I don't think any god's gonna save us now, Antonio. We're beyond anyone's help." Antonio gave a quiet whimper, running a hand through his unkempt hair. "_Dios mio, _Gilbert. Nations never used to just die like this. What in the world have we done?"

"A lot of things that are too late to take back now, I can tell you that much. Come on, it's starting to rain. We should get back to Elisaveta and Roderich before they start to miss me."

The woman began to wail again. Gilbert did not attempt to silence her.

* * *

A/N: Translations:  
madár-agy, Hungarian- bird-brain  
Pfanne verrückt Dame, German- crazy frying pan lady  
Sie kränklich Aristokrat, German- you sickly aristocrat  
szerelmem, Hungarian- my love  
lo siento, Spanish- I'm sorry  
Dios Mio- oh my god

Oh man, I feel so badly about making Austria sick and killing off poor old Germany. I'm a bad person.  
OTL

Anyways...a brief overview of what's going on here.

During the war (which still hasn't been explained, but no worries. I'm leaving it intentionally vague. There'll be more in the next chapter, I promise. |D; ) Austria and Hungary practically remarried—aka, their governments became so close in the tension that they more or less melded; however, they remained neutral until the end, where an attempt at conquering Hungary was made. Austria and his government were not pleased. Germany, on the other hand, was a Nation hit hardest. Prussia only survived because his area happened to somehow remain mostly untouched.

Reviews are greatly appreciated! ;u;;


	6. So Let It Be Done

**So Let It Be Done**

Disclaimer: Hetalia doesn't belong to me. Alas.

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The meeting room was as crowded as always, although markedly more somber than other gatherings it had held. Ludwig shuffled papers into neat piles as Feliciano clung to his arm, chattering about everything and anything that might make the German smile--all of his previous attempts had proved futile today. Antonio received a very passionate lecture from the elder Vargas brother, Lovino, although the Spaniard hadn't really seemed to be listening to a single word that came out of his mouth and instead focused on gazing lovingly at Lovino's wayward curl.

A normal occurrence.

Kiku attempted to explain the complex wiring of a proper television to broad-shouldered Ivan, who smiled complacently at the dark-haired Nation, nodding at the correct intervals and sometimes turning to his favored Baltic Nation, Toris, to speak in Russian of the new information he had gained. Toris shifted nervously in his seat under Ivan's pale violet gaze and answered with various replies such as; 'oh, that's wonderful, Mr. Russia' or 'I'm so glad you understand now, Mr. Russia'. Feliks promptly burst into the conversation when it seemed Toris could sink no lower in his seat, going so far as to place his high heel-clad foot onto the table and lean close into Ivan's face, making empty threats to 'totally beat the crazy out of your, like, dumb head n' stuff'--this invoked Ivan's younger sister, Natalia, to lean across Ivan's chest and glare menacingly at the Pole. "Big Brother is not crazy, Poland." Feliks flipped his hair over his shoulder and sniffed indifferently. Toris was almost under the meeting table now. "Uh, yeah, in case you like, hadn't noticed, kiddo, your brother is totally crazy. Looks like it runs in the family n' stuff too, now that I take a good look at ya." Francis wolf-whistled, and Arthur gave him a steady punch in the face.

The chaos would have escalated had Alfred not walked into the room. Awkward, stifling silence pervaded the air as the American settled into his seat, off-blond hair slightly more ruffled than usual and glasses far off kilter. The grin on his lips could have been plastic for all its hollowness.

"So, what's--," a manic giggle burst through his lips, earning a rather concerned glance from both Arthur and his twin brother, Matthew, "--what's shakin' today, fellas?"

Silence met him as an answer, aside from partially concealed coughs and the quiet shuffle of papers. Eventually Feliciano spoke, and even he was intelligent enough to attempt keeping his voice even; "We were just waiting for you, America. Did you have a nice weekend?" The Italian flashed a pearly smile in Alfred's direction, though the way he clutched Ludwig's wrist like a lifeline revealed his fear. Alfred gave another laugh, this one cutting through the tense air and left it oozing out even more apprehension. "My weekend was s-s-stupendous, thanks, Italy! J-just--" The bomber jacket-clad Nation's facade slipped, leaving a strained man for all to see for a harried moment; Arthur narrowed his eyes in suspicion. The mask returned as Alfred cleared his throat. "--just peachy, I a-assure you all! W-we ready to get started?"

The American's hands trembled violently as they roved over the piles of manila folders he had brought into the meeting room—all the while he wore the same tight-drawn grin that his politicians had over the past year. Matthew made to touch his brother's arm in comfort several times, but at the last moment seemed to flinch away and place his hands back in his lap, eyes cast ashamedly on the tabletop. Ludwig was bristling, his angular jaw taut as he laced his fingers with Feliciano's; every muscle in his body told him danger was near, but duty bound him to this place just as it had bound he and his people to both World Wars. Feliciano ignored his brother's disapproving glare and gave Ludwig's hand a squeeze.

And then Ivan spoke the world's mind.

"You are looking antsy this morning, Jones. Did something happen? I am sure the comrades among me have been vondering the same quvestion, so I thought, vhy not ask aloud?" The Russian's lilting, childish voice reverberated around the room like a death sentence announced to a full court. Kiku sputtered quietly, appalled at the lack of tact expressed by his Western neighbor. Yekatrina stifled her sob into a tissue that Matthew had handed to her at the first sign of tears.

Two Nations, Russian and American, stared at each other across the glistening table. A couple Nations shrank back in their seats; Berwald rose from his chair and expressed the need for the bathroom in a low mumble before exiting the meeting. Tino quickly followed, dragging the protesting Peter along behind him. Ludwig watched the retreating figures with envy, gripping Feliciano's hand so tightly he could practically feel the other man's pulse—it was beating at a dizzying pace. The German vaguely wondered if his heart rate was the same.

Alfred slowly, shakily, replaced his grin, blue eyes staring across at Ivan but seeming not to see. The Russian waited patiently in his seat, smiling as usual. No amount of fake sunny expressions could diffuse the stifling smog of blood lust between them.

"What're y-ya talkin' 'bout, Braginsky? I'm obviously h-healthy as a...a horse, or somethin'!" Alfred giggled unevenly, looking as though he would soon burst into maniacal laughter. Arthur's eyes flickered pleadingly to Ivan. _Please don't do this, Russia, this is not a good time, can't you see that?_

The unspoken plea went unnoticed.

"You look rather like horse vith rabies today, then, Jones. Not so healthy, I think. Something is bothering you, _da_?" Ivan continued, a challenging gleam in his eye that just dared Alfred into making a wrong move. A violent move. Alfred twitched. Arthur's stomach began twisting into nervous knots. Francis was concentrating on picking imaginary pieces of lint from his suit.

"Can't you just let it go so we can get on with the damn meeting, Braginsky?"

"I can't let it go if I do not know vat it is."

Alfred's nostrils flared. His smile was becoming more like a grimace with every passing second. Feliciano whimpered and shrunk against Ludwig's side. Arthur was wondering exactly why he hadn't intervened sooner, before Alfred changed like this.

"I said let it go, Braginsky."

"I am merely asking, Jones, no need to get angry."

"Wipe that goddamn smirk off your face or I'll do it for you."

"Alfred, sit down, he's just trying to rile you up--"

"Shut up Arthur, and get your hands off me. If Braginsky's askin' for it, I'm gonna give it to 'im." Kiku grimaced, rubbing at his arms as if a sudden chill had entered the room. That in itself was a strange motion, as it was summer, and the meeting room was rather warm.

Alfred rose suddenly from his seat, chair toppling over behind him, and pulled out a small black machine, to which Ivan responded just as quickly--Ludwig yanked Feliciano behind his shoulder, yelling _Alright you two settle down for god's sake settle down goddamn you two!--_Toris could only stare, mortified, at the two Nations pointing guns at each other and aiming to kill.

Arthur's hand was left suspended, as if Alfred's trembling shoulder still rested beneath it.

Breath gusted from Ivan's large nose like an enraged bear. Alfred's shaking hands were no less subtle.

Silence.

And then Alfred flung his weapon to the floor and dove across the table to tackle the heavyset Russian to the ground, hands like claws against Ivan's neck. A gunshot rang out, along with Ivan's choked cry of surprise. Feliciano screamed, pressing his face into Ludwig's neck as both Arthur and Matthew instinctively went to pull Alfred off his target.

Alfred was stronger than his frame told, Matthew found, and he soon retired to yelling pleas into his elder brother's ear; he was never one for fighting. Arthur yanked stubbornly at Alfred's shoulders, avoiding the warring Nations' flailing limbs as best he could before Francis tore him away.

Another gunshot, this time one earning a startled yelp from Feliks. Toris leaped to his friend's aid, words tumbling out of his mouth, words he vaguely thought were defending Ivan somehow, what irony—Feliks would hear none of them, and, pressing one palm to the fresh wound, swore aloud that this attack would not go unnoticed. Toris's stomach fell as if it were filled with lead at that statement.

Suddenly, the chaos stopped, the room silent save for a quiet gagging noise and a steady drip, drip, drip.

"G-ge'—'ff—Br'g--'n--sk--!!"

"You started dis battle, ve finish id, Jobes." Ivan wiped the blood hastily away from his broken nose, paws gripping Alfred's windpipe. The American struggled beneath, hands floundering around the gray carpet for something, anything, to prevent the Russian from carrying out his will. Yekatrina and Natalia's faces were devoid of colour; tears ran down Feliciano's cheeks and soaked Ludwig's shoulder as he observed the scene before him.

It was the perfect opportunity for a war. Involve yourself, or suffer the consequences.

More painful quiet, save for Alfred's stifled wheezing and the metallic dripping noise.

Arthur's voice shook when he spoke, hating the way his sentences creaked; "Let go of him, Russia. Let go of him now."

Ivan's head whipped around to the voice, as if expecting another attack. The man's violet eyes locked with Arthur's green for a moment, then his sisters', then Matthew's. He slowly released his hold on his enemy—Alfred exploded into coughs, grateful for the air--and stood, long arms hanging limp at his sides. It would have been pitiable had he not been covered in red.

"Remember, Jones; you started this. Not me. I vill see you on the battlefield." Ivan murmured, his tone quiet with an underlying tone of violence still waiting to be unleashed. He bent slightly and spat on Alfred's face before leaving the room, scarf billowing behind him. Alfred had sat halfway up, blue eyes staring at the Russian's retreating figure without seeming to comprehend what had just been said as Arthur clutched the man's arm and attempted to help him to his feet. Matthew's hand trembled as he collected the pieces of his brother's smashed glasses. Feliks brushed past him, out the door—no doubt to confront Ivan upon the matter of a bullet catching his arm. Toris glanced nervously to those around him before bolting off after the Pole.

"Was there any need for that, America?" Ludwig said after a long, awkward silence—his shoulder was still braced protectively in front of Feliciano should Alfred decide to lash out again. The situation seemed fairly unlikely now, with Alfred being assisted to his feet and eyes fixed on the carpet in a sort of blank self-contemplation.

The American paused, gaze flickering over to Ludwig as he spoke, before continuing to stare at the ground, biting his lip. Ludwig growled, his teeth grinding audibly while he rose from his chair. "I said, America, was there any need for that sort of behavior? Answer me." Feliciano whimpered and clutched onto his lover's coat tail in a silent plea. Ludwig brushed him off, his icy glare never leaving Alfred's face.

Alfred flinched. Paused. Shook his head. "No." Ludwig waited, unsatisfied with the response. Alfred swallowed thickly before speaking again. "No, there wasn't. I'm just..." His voice broke, clogging with emotion; his hands rose to brush something away from his face, but soon fell to fiddle with a loose string on his jacket. "Sorry."

"I should say you should be, America. That was completely unacceptable. Meeting adjourned."

Most Nations rose all too eagerly from their seats while others passed by Alfred slowly, different expressions creasing their ageless faces as they did so. Alfred could meet none of their eyes.

After all, one would feel guilty if they had incited World War III, would they not?

-------

A/N: Aaaaand there we go—the beginning of the end. Haha, I love that cliché.

For anyone who doesn't understand America's motives; war earns money. America was in a deep economic depression. If further elaboration is needed, I'll be happy to give it. :U

Poor America, he's really such a sweetheart—I feel badly about antagonizing him in this fic, because I tend to dislike fics where America is totally off his rocker. Then again, with what happened to him in recent years, I think he's got good reason to be paranoid. In other news, I love Russian accents. They're so fun to write. Hope I didn't offend anyone, though...? ;u;;

Anyways, please review!


	7. Nokorimono ni wa fuku ga aru

**Luck Exists in the Leftovers**

Disclaimer: Hetalia isn't miiiine. If it had been, the series would have been a complete fail. =7=;

* * *

If one had asked Kiku Honda exactly what he had been expecting from the day America had incited World War III—then called the Great Russo-American War—he would certainly not had responded, _being held at gunpoint by his elder brother_. No, that would have been quite low on his list, and that was saying something. Kiku was a very busy man. Then again, that list had been chopped down somewhat recently. Living in a post-apocalyptic world tended to do that, Kiku supposed. Not that it had happened before.

"I said move! Lazy f_èi wù, _this isn't some time to think, aru! Start digging, you _èrbǎiwǔ!_" Yao barked, ramming the head of his weapon again into Kiku's spine to force him forward again. It had the intended effect, as Kiku obediently bent and began moving aside debris, his hood pulled far over his head to block out the rain. Well, he hoped it was rain, but it seemed too dark and too dense to be natural precipitation. Yao hadn't seemed to notice, or perhaps he just didn't care; he seemed awfully preoccupied with yelling insults at the top of his strong voice. Kiku envied that he still had that power, not to mention many others Yao had gained in being the sole major Nation that had benefited from world society's collapse.

The Chinese man suddenly paused in his shouts when a foghorn sounded not far off the coast; his expression was a strange mixture of indecision and nostalgia that Kiku found unsettling. He forced his eyes away and continued rummaging through the bricks and other broken materials, packing whatever vaguely useful objects he found into his nap sack. Yao made a broad sweeping gesture with his arm at the incoming ship, his mouth set in a thin, grim line. More scavengers, Kiku supposed. Greedy, selfish pillagers, defiling his land like this. It made him sick to think of it.

However, when Yao suddenly raised his gun and shot several times at the hull of the old boat, Kiku felt his heart swell with gratitude. Then as he remembered this wasn't _his_ land anymore, but his brother's, the feeling wilted as soon as it had grown.

The nail of Kiku's index finger chipped off on a piece of metal, and he hissed. Yao barely seemed to notice, mind still set upon sinking the offending ship.

"Damn thieves, aru." The long-haired Chinese man grumbled as the foghorn bellowed again, the boat's passengers jumping from the sides and making pathetic attempts to fight the thrashing gray waves. They almost immediately disappeared beneath the rage of the tide. Kiku frowned, but made no comment.

Yao tapped his shoulder two hours later to draw Kiku to his feet and put one arm around his shoulders. Kiku wanted to squirm in discomfort at the contact, but did not complain when his brother offered him a small tin can of hardened noodles. Any food was good food at this point. Kiku's throat struggled to force out words of thanks, but only a whisper came from his lips. Yao seemed to understand, nodding as he released the other and stepped away to give him space to eat. The shotgun bobbed, suddenly a harmless piece of formed metal, against his back as he went. Somehow the image made Kiku want to smile, but he repressed the urge and ate.

"So." Yao began awkwardly--his voice quiet for the first time in a long while. Kiku glanced up from his meal to his brother, curious. This moment, one devoid of threats and work, was not a luxury to which he was treated. Yao shifted from one foot to another and he twirled his fingers through his ponytail, a nervous habit the man had never been able to break even after all these years. Again Kiku felt the corners of his mouth twitching up traitorously at the endearing reminder that yes, his brother was still human after all—well, technically.

"So, I thought I might move west. To, you know...take control. Gain some more land, aru."

Good feeling gone.

Kiku would have protested, had his voice allowed—however, his larynx was determined to remain paralyzed, and the most he could manage was a frown to show his disapproval. Yao turned to take in his younger brother's response.

"You don't approve, aru." It hadn't been a question. Kiku shifted uncomfortably and moved his gaze to the pile of rubble that used to be a seaside apartment building, fearful of his brother's reaction to his opinion. To Kiku's surprise, Yao made no violent movements in his direction, instead focusing his frustration on a nearby rock; the stone flew far out into the distance with the force of the kick. When Kiku realized that motion could have well been directed at his already-fragile back, he reminded himself to regain his neutral facial expression at all times around his brother and continued to eat the dry noodles.

"Now that Ivan is gone, the path to Europe is free, aru. I'll just pass over his land and...and claim the Nations that are still alive over there, if any. They can't possibly have the power to fight back, aru." Kiku made no comment on the way Yao's voice trembled--nearly died--upon Ivan's name and his status as...well, no longer in charge. The thought inspired both weak sympathy for his brother and a smug satisfaction at knowing Alfred had finished what he had started, for once.

"Some of my scouts tell me America is dead." When Kiku remained silent without a trace of emotion upon his pale features, Yao continued; "He was last seen at England's house, but now he's nowhere to be found, aru. His government is in shambles, and his brother is practically dead, too. That's what you get when you side with the enemy, Kiku, remember that, aru."

This statement, however, made Kiku flinch. "Something wrong, aru?"

"America-san was not the enemy, Yao."

Kiku had surprised himself with that statement, or even having the ability to speak at all, but he was not at all startled to find himself feeling the cold barrel of a gun suddenly shoved against his head. His hands trembled as they continued to pick the noodles from their can, but otherwise he gave the impression of calm quite well.

"That psychotic pig was always the enemy! How dare you suggest otherwise, aru?!" Ah, yes. Kiku had almost forgotten how unaccustomed Yao was to his newfound power, paralleling his almost pathetic weakness—such were his thoughts as Yao drove the heel of his boot into his younger brother's spine.

Kiku had not, however, forgotten how softhearted his brother could be. Almost seconds after he had thrown his brother aside with brute force, he was on his knees and cradling Kiku's head to his chest in apology.

"I'm so sorry, Kiku, I keep forgetting, I'm so sorry, aru..."

"It is fine. Faulty memory can be expected from one as...aged as yourself." Kiku muttered in response, pushing himself away from the warm arms of his brother and brushing himself off, feeling contaminated with sentiment. He avoided Yao's tear-glazed eyes as best he could while he gathered the remains of the noodles back into the can.

"I didn't hurt you, did I, aru?"

_Yes. It hurt quite a bit when you shot me several times in the ribs while on the opposite side of a battlefield. I suppose now we're even_. "No, I am unharmed."

"At least your voice is working a little now, aru?"

Kiku had not noticed this. He briefly touched his scarred throat, moving his fingers gently over the burns found there. His hands drew away to rest in his lap, unsure what to do next. "Yes. I am glad for it." Yao gave a shaky, assuring smile before rising from his knees to walk over to the craggy seaside—his gun was slung over his shoulder again and bobbing against his back.

Well, this had certainly been an interesting evening. Or was it morning? It was difficult to tell the time with the sun being blanketed over with such smog. His watch had been destroyed, too, one of the many unfortunate occurrences this war had brought.

"We'll head for Germany tomorrow, aru. Try and get some sleep before then."

Kiku was all too happy to obey; he knelt inside a slanted, cave-like structure conveniently made from debris, careful not too move quickly for the pain his back brought.

For all his fatigue, he did not sleep until he felt the comforting warmth of his brother at his side.

* * *

A/N: Translations:  
fèi wù- good for nothing

èrbǎiwǔ- stupid person/idiot

BAWWWW BROTHERLY WUV. Or, you know, not so much. But the chapter ended warm and fuzzy, so it should be fine, right?...right?

OTL

uhm. About pairings...here's a brief list of the ones I think will be incorporated in this fic. I'm open to any suggestions, so, uh, suggest away? The only set pairings at the moment are Austria/Hungary, Finland/Sweden, North Italy/Germany, and Spain/South Italy. (Pretty canon, amirite? :D)

Also, I'm running a bit dry on inspiration nowadays...so I'll take 2 writing requests (one per person) for any Hetalia pairing of your choosing. It might take a while since I'm in the middle of a play and I'm off to Switzerland in two weeks (WOO~), but I'll make sure to write them.

Thanks for reading, and please review! C:


	8. A buon intenditor poche parole

**Few words to the good knowledgeable**

Disclaimer: Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.

* * *

"Why did you of all people have to still be alive, huh? I told you already, Germany's dead—the whole country's still up in smoke. I'd turn around and march right back to Rome if I were you two. There's nothing over these mountains but dead land."

That certainly hadn't been what Feliciano had wanted to hear. Lovino heard his choking sob while he nodded his head in understanding. "We know, Switzerland. The war's over, we're not armed. We just want to check." Lovino felt comforted in the word 'we' recently, yet every time he spoke it, the syllable scathed his mouth. It was an unfamiliar feeling, this separation. He had never felt it before, always with Antonio at his side, the friendly, blindly passionate Nation--

Bile rose into Lovino's throat, and he found he could not think of him any longer without stirring a panicked beat in his heart.

Vash was silent for several moments, his hawk-like eyes boring into Lovino's and his rifle unmoving from its direction the Italian's chest. Feliciano made a strange whimpering noise and buried his face into Lovino's collarbone. The elder Vargas brother flinched, but remained strong—or simply apathetic to any more violence. There had been enough for several centuries in the past ten years.

"Alright. But I'm warning you, this...ash is all over the place down there. I mean it. You breathe that stuff in for too long in a low-land area, you're finished." At this interval, Vash jabbed the rifle's barrel into Lovino's ribs—Feliciano whined again, this time louder. Lovino wanted to beat him into silence. "Even a Nation like you two. We're not so different from humans now, remember that." Lovino ignored the warning, instead choosing to focus on how absolutely terrible Vash looked; dark circles rimmed his eyes, his uniform was torn and bloodied in places, and his hair was a mess, matted with wet ash and other filth. The Swiss seemed to realize this and nudged him again, scowling. "Hey. Listen to me when I'm talking to you. I'm serious about this. I don't want to have to pick up another dead Nation--it gets old fast."

Suddenly Lovino wasn't so interested in scrutinizing Vash's expression. Instead he nodded, swallowed thickly, and stuck out his hand for the other Nation to shake. The Swiss remained motionless, his frown deepening. Lovino's neutral expression soon darkened, too, with impatience. Feliciano was quietly humming "_Ich Liebe Dich_" to himself in a trembling tone. Again, Lovino repressed the urge to smack his brother across the face.

"Well?"

"You weren't the only ones affected by the war." Vash replied in a low growl as he slung his rifle back over his shoulder and pulled his coat up further over himself. Lovino noticed he hadn't used his left arm once in this entire meeting. Feliciano had broken down into tears again with his breath coming in harsh gasps.

"Oh, fantastic. Of all times, you had to have a panic attack now? _Gesù Cristo, siete inutili_." Lovino snapped, elbowing his little brother in the ribs. Feliciano then began openly bawling and hugged Lovino around the waist, sobbing apologies, endearments, and Ludwig's name into the curve of his back; there were frequent moments where the little Italian would freeze, cough, and sputter, his throat clogging with the force of his fear. His brother shook him off, face flushing with embarrassment.

"Sorry, Switzerland."

Vash shrugged; the only features that told the slightest hint of emotion were his furrowed eyebrows. Feliciano continued to hyperventilate until Lovino grew worried and reached for his hand. "Calm down, Feli. It's alright. It's alright. Goddamn you, it's alright!" When the elder Vargas twin began, his voice had been uncharacteristically soft—however, when Feliciano turned towards him, tired auburn eyes so trusting, a surge of hatred had risen in Lovino's center and forced its way out his mouth in the form of a curse. Feliciano silenced for a moment before bursting into fresh sobs, squeezing his eyes shut to block out the world. Vash looked on at the twins' actions, his once-neutral expression suddenly full of accusation. Lovino caught his eye once and cast his gaze to the ground, ashamed. He forced his thumb to rub comforting rhythms on the back of his brother's hand; Feliciano soon quieted after the gesture and took to hiccuping softly, eyes still closed tight.

For what seemed like hours, the only noise was Feliciano humming '_Ich Liebe Dich_' with the occasional hiccup. Vash's coat slid from his shoulders and onto the floor--the fact that he had only a single arm burned in the pit of Lovino's stomach. The Swiss did not leave him much time to contemplate it as he bent down, his face suddenly a mask of calm, and pulled the dirtied cloth back over his shoulder to adjust it accordingly. Lovino felt as though he could do nothing but stare. His brother felt as though he could do nothing but hum an old German love song to a Nation that would never again listen, let alone breathe.

"You can head on your way now." Vash began slowly, his voice strained into a taught, monotone line. Lovino had known him long enough to see he was throughly ashamed. The Italian didn't question it and let him continue. "North of here is Bern. You just continue in that direction for a few days until you reach a broken borderline. That's..." Here, the hawk-eyed blond paused and cast his gaze into the distance, where, Lovino imagined, lay the remains of Germany. His voice dropped significantly, almost to a whisper—as if he didn't want Feliciano to hear. "That's where he was last time I checked, but I didn't bury him. Too much to clean up. Prussia's still alive, though."

_To lose a brother. I can't imagine it._

Feliciano had risen his hum to quiet song. "...Nor was there a day when you and I did not share our troubles..." Lovino's heart wrenched in discomfort. His palms began to sweat and his cheeks reddened, a surefire sign of oncoming emotional turmoil.

"_Grazie. La ringrazio molto_, Vash." He murmured, inclining his head briefly in the Swiss's direction. The blond halted a moment before returning the gesture, his voice still pulled taut. "_Gärn gscheh_."

"...Therefore, may God's blessing be upon you; You, my life's joy..."

Lovino's chest seemed to twist again, and he dragged his brother away, grateful to leave the company of the one-armed, lonely neutral Nation.

* * *

A/N: Translations-  
Gesù Cristo, siete inutili.- Jesus christ, you are useless.  
Grazie. La ringrazio molto_- _Thank you. Thank you very much.  
Gärn gscheh (Swiss German)- You are welcome.

"Ich Liebe Dich" is a love song by Ludwig Van Beethoven that was written in 1795 and first published in 1803. Beethoven was 25 years old when it was composed. The song is occasionally referred to by its first line, "Ich liebe dich, so wie du mich." (Wikipedia)

...I thought it was cute. :I

Anyhoo, this was a pretty plot-less chapter, and kind of disappointing. Not a lot happens. I just wanted to let ol' Switzerland get some cameo time before heading into ~*~*the real action~*~* haha!

Again, not much happens, but I'll be updating again on Sunday, so please look out for the next chapter! I promise it will be more exciting than this one. ;u;;

Anyways, hope you like! Please review!


	9. Az egyik szemem sír, a másik nevet

**One of my eyes is crying, the other one is laughing**

Disclaimer: Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.

* * *

"Fight! Fight! Fight!"

The word alone had stirred an unnerving feeling in the pit of Elisaveta's stomach. She had heard it so many times over the years--loved it in certain cases—but now it only evoked a strong sense of exasperation.

That exasperation quickly exploded into rage once she set eyes on who had began it.

There, in the center of a small mob, were two men; one foreign to her, and the other all too familiar by the shock of white-blond hair and eyes the colour of the blood that dripped down his sharp nose.

"Gilbert, what the hell are you doing?!"

The screams for violence in the crowd were quickly cowed into silence. Gilbert landed one final punch at his enemy's stomach before rising his head to search for the interruption, eyes still wild with the thrill of battle. That insanity dissolved with one look at Elisaveta's face.

The albino's adversary, a heavyset young man with blond hair and fierce brown eyes, shoved Gilbert from him and stomped off through the horde, spitting out a tooth as he went. Elisaveta's hands itched for a frying pan, but the precious weapon was nowhere to be found. Nonetheless, the only thing that prevented her from beating Gilbert into a pulp with her bare hands was the fact that the Prussian looked somewhat ashamed of himself—a rare expression for Gilbert.

"Well?"

Gilbert snorted the red from his nose in a crude manner, eyes intent on the ash-covered ground. "Ha! He ran off, the weak d_ummkopf_. As if he could beat the awesome me, right?" At this attempt at humor, his gaze flickered up to meet Elisaveta's and his mouth twitched into what was meant to be a haughty grin. At a growl from the Hungarian, the grin faltered and Gilbert snorted again.

"Is it that hard to look for medicine without starting a brawl?" Elisaveta questioned in a low voice, bending to a crouch in front of the suddenly sheepish albino. She again wished to feel the cool metal of a certain cooking utensil in her hands, hear the satisfying _clang _as it made contact with Gilbert's head—then again, maybe that was why he was such an idiot. Elisaveta made a mental note of this and continued to glare Gilbert into a proper answer.

His response made the anger dissipate as soon as it had arrived.

"He had the last bottle. I asked for a few tablets--politely, too--he said no. I told him about Roderich, how he was dying, he said 'so what, everyone's dying'. I said it was urgent. He said he needed it for a good trip." At this interval, Gilbert snapped his nose back into place. "I told him Roderich was important. He said he wasn't 'more important than anyone else so what if he dies, one less diseased bastard in the world'. So I punched him." The dazed look in Gilbert's off-red eyes let Elisaveta know he hadn't been lying. She drew a napkin from her pocket and began to dab at her friend's bleeding nose.

"No one insults that sissy aristocrat but me."

Elisaveta drew in a shivering breath and knelt closer, petting Gilbert's feathery white hair while she cleaned his face. "Yeah. You did the right thing this time, Gil."

As soon as Elisaveta finished wiping the Prussian's face clear of blood, Gilbert grinned—a real smile this time, one that made his Hungarian friend want to beam right back. The muscles in her face were almost sore for lack of use, and it felt good to use them again. "But you know what, Elisa? I didn't get m'nose broke for nothing. Lookie here." Gilbert chuckled, chest puffed out with pride as he drew the medicinal bottle from his hoodie pocket and dropped it into Elisaveta's palm. Elisaveta's jaw dropped in shock when she studied the container's faded label.

"Feel free to praise my name any minute now."

Elisaveta's eyes met Gilbert's. His grin was almost reaching his ears now.

"Gilbert, I...I don't know what to say."

"How about, 'oh, Gilbert, you are the most awesome person ever to walk the earth?'" Elisaveta let out a chuckle at this and embraced her friend, her shoulders shivering with laughter. Gilbert laughed along and patted her back awkwardly, pale cheeks flushing with the slightest bit of colour.

"_Köszönöm_, Gilbert. Really. With this, Roderich might..." Elisaveta trailed off, smile fading somewhat. Gilbert could practically feel the humor leave her body, and it stung worse than the cold to realize that the only thing the medicine was going to do was prolong Roderich's condition--not cure it. Gilbert sighed and brought the two of them to their feet, brushing the ash off his knees to put off a show of disinterest. Elisaveta forced a smile while taking his hand in hers. They walked back to the make-shift camp in silence; Gilbert rubbed the pad of his thumb over the medicinal bottle's frayed label while Elisaveta thought of four-hundred other things to keep her mind off her husband's condition.

They reached the others in time to see Antonio light a small bonfire and laugh about something or other to Roderich who rolled his eyes, barely holding off good humor. The camp's overall comfort level had improved greatly when Antonio joined them; they were now mostly safe from rainfall with a roof over their heads, they slept on blankets rather than feathered ash, and the Spaniard had a way of brightening up any place he went, no matter how stifled with disease. It might not have been much of an improvement, but the four Nations felt as though they might have been in a four-star hotel from their previous condition.

At the sound of Elisaveta and Gilbert's footsteps, both Antonio and Roderich's heads snapped up, eyes suddenly sharp with hostility. While Innsbruck was not completely devoid of food and water yet, it did not stop pillagers from gathering more goods for later, and a great many had gone mad. It was only a short matter of time before things declined further, if possible. Roderich shivered to think of it.

Antonio's gaze immediately brightened at the sight of his friends, all animosity gone from his face. He got to his feet at an alarming speed, seeing as one of his legs had been nearly burned into paralysis and his hipbone mildly fractured. "_Hola_, Elisaveta, Gilbert! Come on inside, it looks like rain." His cheerful tone broke through the thick tension as he ushered the duo inside, smiling all the while. Antonio hadn't seemed to notice Gilbert's misshapen appearance and instead took to cooking a can of beans over the fire, quietly singing a Spanish song to himself. Roderich heard the first two words and felt his stomach churn uncomfortably.

Elisaveta took a seat beside the Austrian and kissed his cheek. "How are you doing, sweetheart? Any better?" Roderich paused for a moment, rubbing his hands together. He nodded slightly. Elisaveta placed her arm around his waist and drew closer. "Really? You're feeling better?" Again, Roderich froze for a moment, then turned to his wife and smiled. "Yes. I'm quite well today, _mein Liebling_. My throat is a tad sore, but my coughing has been quite mild for the most part." Elisaveta smiled and kissed him again. "I'm so glad." She leaned her head on his shoulder. Their fingers entwined between them.

Gilbert wrinkled his nose at the scene and sat down next to Antonio, who had remained singing softly under his breath. "_Sana, sana, colita de rana_..." The Spaniard cast a quick glance to his red-eyed friend, grinned, and continued. He was enunciating his words now. "..._Si no sanas hoy, sanaras mañana_."

"The hell is that supposed to mean, 'Tonio."

Antonio laughed, green eyes alive and bright. Gilbert envied him for the sake of Roderich.

"It's a song from my house. It's supposed to have healing powers." The Prussian scoffed at this, resting his cheek on his hand. "You sound like England or something." Bad move. Antonio's smile slid off his face. _Oh crap oh crap why did I bring him up this is bad oh crap_--

Antonio paused, staring blankly at his friend for a few moment before bursting into more loud laughter, continuing just as he had before. The Spaniard's shaking hands did not go unnoticed by Elisaveta, who had looked up with fear at the word 'England' and cast Gilbert a fierce glare. The albino shrank slightly back, the rare look of shame molding into his clear-cut features again.

"I'll sing something else, then, hmm? _Los pollitos dicen "pio, pio, pio"_..." The Spaniard began again, his voice significantly quieter in tone and hands still shivering. Gilbert pretended to smile and understand what the song meant, but kept his mouth shut. Elisaveta's glare did not waver. Rain began to fall outside, soon growing into a calm, even hush.

There was a gunshot. Roderich and Antonio flinched. Gilbert and Elisaveta leaped to their feet. Following the violent noise, there was a bout of loud swearing from nearby, and yet another explosion. Antonio's hand slowly itched to the pistol around his waist as he set down the can of beans with the other. The expression from when Gilbert and Elisaveta arrived returned to the brunette's face; in the light of the flames, the shadows cast across his features made him appear more and more like the great warrior he had been so long ago—a conquistador. The sight almost made Gilbert want to smile.

"_Cristo! Perché questo avvenga sempre, maledizione_?!"

"_Fratello_, are you okay?!"

At the sound of those voices, both Elisaveta and Antonio bolted out of the makeshift camp despite Roderich's protests.

"_Du schmutziger Dieb! Wie wagen Sie es versuchen, mir stehlen_?! _Feuer, Feuer, sage ich_!" A man screamed, his lanky, skeletal form quivering with madness. His eyes were sunken and his skin was taut over his cheekbones. A rifle was in his bony hands, pointed at the squirming Italian beneath him, then jerking to direct the barrel at the other knelt at his brother's side, variating between the two every so often. Antonio felt the air rush out of him as if he had been punched.

Lovino snarled as he wiped the blood collected between his fingers onto his jacket and glared up at the green-eyed, blond Austrian. "I don't speak pig, _idiota_. But talk to my brother if you want, he learned quite a bit from his bloody Kraut over the years." The Italian remarked sharply, lifting himself onto his elbows and drawing away—the escape was mostly ineffective, as both his leg and hip were wounded. Feliciano hugged his shoulder and sobbed. The man's eyes seemed to roll back in his head for a moment, and he let out a peal of what Elisaveta supposed was laughter. "_Feuer, Feuer, werde ich von allen die Soldaten los, ich werde der Feind loszuwerden, nur warten!" _Lovino swallowed thickly and pressed his palm onto one bullet-wound. Feliciano whimpered, clutching his brother ever tighter. Antonio suddenly jerked forward, but Elisaveta held his arm fast and yanked him back. "What, you want to die, too? For god's sake, Spain, we're not so immortal anymore!" The Hungarian whispered harshly, fingernails digging into Antonio's well-tanned arm. The Spaniard frowned, his overgrown bangs hiding his eyes from her for a moment. Elisaveta's grip tightened.

"_Bitte, Herr, sei nicht böse! Der Krieg ist vorbei, wir tun es nicht böse, bitte nicht weh uns_!" Feliciano sobbed helplessly, attempting to make eye-contact with the blond as he crawled in front of his brother, hands kneading into the wet ground. The man stared down at him, almost childlike in his fascination.

Another gunshot. Antonio tore free of Elisaveta's hold and launched himself in front of the Vargas twins; mud splattered both parties, and the maniac gave a loud squawk of surprise. Antonio whipped around and fired several shots into the man's head, teeth gritting with the sudden stabbing pain from both his charred leg and fractured hip. Feliciano screamed and scrambled backward, shaking his now-bleeding hand in an attempt to lose the bullet.

There came an awkward moment of silence in Innsbruck—the sort that only death or immense shock seemed to inspire. Feliciano was first to voice displeasure by vomiting his fear onto the watery floor. Lovino said nothing but gathered his younger brother into his arms, petting his back automatically. Antonio sucked in two breaths at once, mouth still agape at what had just taken place. Elisaveta wrung her hands once, twice, before bolting over to the wounded group; Gilbert followed soon after, and Roderich remained in the entryway, eyes wide.

Antonio turned to face Lovino, jaw hanging open stupidly. He set himself down in the mud and did not seem to care that he was wearing the single pair of clothes he owned at the moment. The two men stared at each other; Lovino's mouth was slightly parted, shock embedded into feature. Warm tears began to make their appearance, rolling down the Italian's now tomato-red cheeks to fall onto Feliciano's ash-covered hair. Antonio laughed--a weak, strange noise--and scooted closer, one hand tentatively placing itself on the side of Lovino's face.

"You look like a tomato, Lovi."

Elisaveta lifted Feliciano from his brother's hold and cradled him against her chest, just as she had done when he was small. The Italian continued to sob recklessly and leaned his head onto her shoulder; Roderich stepped into the rain beside them and began to bind Feliciano's hand with a piece of cloth from his coat.

Lovino and Antonio remained completely still, red-rimmed eyes searching one another's face until suddenly, Lovino moved forward and threw his arms around Antonio's neck. Antonio succumbed gratefully into the rare show of affection, muddied hands rubbing circles onto the Italian's back. He could almost feel the heat radiating from Lovino's cheeks, and he laughed.

"What the hell's so funny, you tomato freak? You crazy, or what?" Lovino growled, though his voice was muffled from the position his face lay against the Spaniard's sweater. Antonio laughed again. "I'm just happy, Lovino. Just happy."

The rain was beginning to puddle around them. Ash drifted up and floated upon the surface, their appearance oddly like fragmented gray-white petals. Gilbert coughed, breaking the lull, and headed back inside their camp. His face was a shade of sickly pale, and his hands wrung at his stomach in discomfort. Roderich frowned and headed in behind him, leaving Elisaveta to calm Feliciano's tears and Antonio and Lovino to themselves.

Lovino gave a shaky sigh and sat back to stare Antonio in the eyes again. A smile had made its way onto his marred features, and he gave a wry chuckle. Antonio leaned forward and pressed his lips to the corner of Lovino's mouth, letting them linger there for a long while before drawing away. He flinched when the Italian raised his hand, but his tentativeness had been wasted, for Lovino merely placed it onto Antonio's cheek.

"You know what? I think I am, too,_ idiota_."

* * *

A/N: Translations (woah there's a lot in this chapterfff)

dummkopf(German)- idiot

Köszönöm (Hungarian)- thank you  
mein Liebling (German)- my love  
Cristo! Perché questo avvenga sempre, maledizione(Italian)- Christ! Why does this always happen, damn it!  
Du schmutziger Dieb! Wie wagen Sie es versuchen, mir stehlen?! Feuer, Feuer, sage ich!(German)- You dirty thief! How dare you try to steal from me! Fire, fire, I say!

Feuer, Feuer, werde ich von allen die Soldaten los, ich werde der Feind loszuwerden, nur warten(German)- Fire, fire, I will go by all the soldiers, I will get rid of the enemy, just wait  
Bitte, Herr, sei nicht böse! Der Krieg ist vorbei, wir tun es nicht böse, bitte nicht weh uns! (German)- Please, sir, don't do this! The war is over, we mean no harm, please do not hurt us!

Sana, sana, colita de rana- Spanish children's song with the meaning, "heal, heal little frog's tail, if you are not healed today, you will heal tomorrow." Or that's the gist I got, anyway.  
Los pollitos dicen 'piyo, piyo, piyo'- Spanish children's song basically about little chicks. Spain thought it was appropriate, probably because he's kind of crazy. Prussia would have certainly appreciated it if he understood what Spain was saying.

Heehee some Spain/Romano for all of you this time~ it's so fun to write! I also needed something relatively happy for the ending because this chapter was a total downer. I really apologize. OTL

Please correct me on any linguistic errors! Again, I'm only using Google Translator so they're pretty rough translations.

Thank you all so much for the lovely reviews—they're all very much appreciated! Please continue to let me know what you think! ;u;;


	10. A man can die just once

Disclaimer: Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.

* * *

"Alfred?"

The siren wailed, its waves crashing in through the windowpanes before ebbing away. It didn't take long for the cycle to continue. Matthew nudged his brother in the side again, feeling panic slowly begin to electrify his nervous system. Alfred groaned and rolled in his sleep, throwing one arm over his ears to prevent himself from being woken. Matthew growled in frustration; fear generally went through him quickly, but he had never remembered such a feeling as this. The sky was pulsing with an eerie power that commanded him to move, to run, to go anywhere he needed to be safe--

The siren was screaming now, so loud that it sent vibrations through the old house. Matthew spat a curse as he glanced out the window. Fighter planes—no, bomber planes.

The panic was sending fire into his throat. He ran back to the bed and literally yanked Alfred from it onto the ground. The American fell with a thud and a mumbled swear before automatically grabbing his glasses from the side-table and shoving them onto his face so that he might be able to get a good look at the one who dared wake him from--

The brothers made eye-contact for several minutes. A low rumble was beginning somewhere nearby, in the air. Alfred and Matthew both bolted from the room, almost tripping over their own feet in their haste.

"Why didn't you wake me up earlier, Matty, damn you, we're screwed now, oh god, where's Arth--"

"I'll get the bathtub ready, just go, he's downstai--!"

The siren howled again and again, gushing over the city--panic in sound-wave form.

Alfred tripped on the last step of the stairs but scrambled to his feet again, tearing open the aged front door—it fell off its hinges and clattered to the ground, he would remember to replace it later--and raced outside. He could only barely hear Arthur's horrified pleas for him to come back into the house, though the American disregarded them and stumbled to his car. He flung it open using sheer force, breaking any lock that had been in place, slid into the front seat, and grabbed the cellphone laying beside him. Alfred paused for a moment as he flipped it open, swearing incessantly at the amount of missed calls it listed. He pressed the third in line, the most important number, and lifted it to his ear; his eyes were trained on the sky as the phone obediently went to dial tone. The sirens were loud, but his heartbeat seemed to overcome the noise anyway--

"Hello?"

"We're under attack. Do as we planned. They're already releasing theirs as we speak"

There was a static-filled quiet. Alfred closed his eyes and reclined against the leather seat, breathing in its scent--the rough smell of Earl Grey, the sea, cologne, meat pies, and rain. The American pushed his bangs from his face and exhaled slowly.

"Are...are you sure, Mr. America?"

"Yeah. I'm sure. Go."

The phone line died. Alfred spared a glance out the tinted window, out at the London sky clogged with planes and smoke. He would've loved to use his new jet to fly on a clear day over the United Kingdom. The green must really looked amazing from far away.

Green. Like Arthur's eyes. Alfred had never made the connection.

He supposed he should say goodbye. This war had put he and the Brit on rocky ground with each other--though their Bosses had stayed resilient and placed them together over and over again, suggested merging, even. Alfred had refused. His people liked independence; Arthur should had known that fact all too well.

The American stepped out of the car for the final time and tossed his cellphone in behind him before shutting the door. _Any minute now_, Alfred thought. _Any minute_. He started back towards the house, and the dim lights from inside began to dance. It was only then that Alfred realized he was beginning to cry. He took in yet another deep breath and continued, forcing his emotions back with barbed wire, just as he had done for the entirety of the war.

Things seemed to go in slow motion when he reached the doorway. Arthur was waiting for him, the faint illumination from a flashlight barely revealing wet tracks down his cheeks. Before he could begin, Alfred spoke.

"Personally, I would've loved to merge with you."

The sirens had stopped. A painful white light. Arthur retreating down the steps, tugging uselessly at Alfred's arm while the American guarded the doorway using his body.

And then the bomb struck.

* * *

A/N: Yaaaay another flashback! This one is the prologue to England and France's chapter, _Across the board_.

...hopefully this makes up for making America look like the villain in Chapter 6? ;u;;

also yeah I thought I'd fit in some England/America, seeing as they're so close country-wise and all. Then again, they sort of stopped the 'Special Relationship' recently, so...  
YEAH JUST IGNORE THAT FOR THE SAKE OF MY MENTAL STATE PLEASE

uhm, well...  
please review? =7=


	11. Najlepsze mienie  czyste sumienie

**The Best Asset Is A Clean Conscience**

Disclaimer: Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.  
Soundtrack: Ordinary Vanity- Akira Yamaoka

* * *

Tino removed his gas-mask and groaned, putting pressure on his temples in a feeble attempt to soothe his pounding headache. This was wrong. This was all wrong. He had thought when he had volunteered for finding survivors, there would have _been someone to find_-that he had been doing the right thing, being a country that had not been completely devastated by the war. In fact, one might say he had prospered. Not quite so much as China, as he had heard was absolutely _thriving;_ but Finland, as a Nation, was doing well.

The key words being, 'as a Nation'. Tino's condition was quite the opposite.

He sat himself down upon a fallen, blackening tree and placed his head in his gloved hands; they smelt of burnt plastic and ash. The scent repulsed him and he straightened up quickly once again, rubbing his shoulders to keep warm. He knew it wasn't wise to keep the mask Berwald had given him off for so long, but he was sick of seeing the world through a tinted visor and breathing through stuffy holes. Not that there was much to take in, anymore.

Not even in what had once been the beautiful countryside of Estonia.

It hurt to even think his dear friend's name, so he busied himself with tracing pictures in the ash and humming—but he was sick of hearing his own voice. The Finn was relieved when another cut in, no matter how grating it was.

"Hey, _Finlandia,_ so, like, where are we again? You totally just said, like, 'wait here, I'll be back in a jiffy, just gonna check this house n' stuff', and then five minutes later, I'm so sure I heard this totally weird scream, and you grabbed my hand again and we ran for, like...aaaages." Feliks paused for breath, hazy green eyes glancing up at the sky before continuing; "Anyways, it feels a lil' colder. Are we further north, or what?"

Tino responded with non-committal noise, hooking the heavy mask back onto his face. Feliks huffed impatiently and did the same, having heard the click and hiss of the machine attaching itself to the many tubes that gave fresh oxygen to the one it protected. Tino observed to make sure the Pole put it on correctly, occasionally glancing around to make sure _they_ hadn't followed them. Then again, he doubted they would, seeing as quite a few of them hadn't had legs. The Finn shivered and shook the memories from his conscious mind.

"Liet would have told me where we were going, for sure."

Liet, Liet, Liet. That was all Feliks talked about nowadays. How 'Liet' would have taken better care of him, how 'Liet' would have better explained what was going on, how 'Liet' would have made better food...it seemed like the only words that came out of the suddenly chatty Pole's mouth was 'Liet would have', soon followed by the word, 'better'. To be perfectly honest, Tino found himself becoming slightly irritated. His patience was truly a blessing, but he found it wearing thin as of late.

"We're in Estonia's country now, _Puola, _and we're headed a little further north, back to my house. We'll stop for food once we reach Ber-" The round-faced Finn paused just as he remembered to edit over his recently 'close' connection with his Swedish neighbor, his cheeks flushing ever so slightly; "...Once we get tired." Feliks gave a low grunt of discontent from behind his visor and reached for Tino's hand. Tino accepted, wrapping his fingers tightly around the Pole's wrist and frowning. He could feel the chill of Feliks's skin even through his gloves—it was an unnerving sensation. "Are you cold, _Puola_?"

Feliks stared, oddly quiet, into the distance. His sigh came out with a grand whooshing noise from his mask, and he shook his head. Tino waited patiently for an answer, annoyance clouding over his senses while several figures appeared in the distance. Four more joined them seconds later from behind. Tino took in a deep breath and stilled his foot from tapping.

"Well...not really. I guess my fingers are a lil' chilly, which is, like, totally weird, but the rest of me isn't cold. Maybe I should just-" The Pole's sentence chopped short when a strange glint entered his sightless eyes. He had smelled or heard something. Tino bristled, awaiting an explanation.

"_O mój Boże, Finlandii, __nie ruszaj się_." The Finn blinked in confusion, shifting through what little knowledge of Polish he had. When the translation came too late upon him, Tino's breath had seemed to turn to smog. His mask was suddenly feeling uncomfortably tight when that gut-wrenching smell entered. His grip closed around Feliks's wrist.

The heavy scent of blood and smoke. They had tracked them. Legless or no, they had tracked them, and they were looking for them still. The ones from the ruined city.

"What do we do?" Tino whispered, watching with wide eyes as a few more shadows, all clad in heavy, rugged clothing with guns swinging in sync on their backs, appeared over the hillside. There was a grand total of ten now. Tino's stomach began to do flip-flops, and he wished desperately he had brought a more effective weapon with him. That toxic thought in mind, he slowly maneuvered Feliks and himself out of plain sight and behind a dying tree. Feliks was shaking-from fear or anger, Tino could not tell. He wrapped an arm around the Pole, hoping to comfort him out of making a rash move.

In the same movement, Tino reached into his coat and drew the Russian-made pistol from its holster. The click it made when taking off the safety startled Feliks, and he gave a harsh gasp of surprise; Tino barely lifted his hand in time to stifle it. Much to the Finn's chagrin, the little blond struggled under his grasp, kicking a spray of ash into the air as he did so. Tino's chest constricted in horror when he heard heavy foot-falls heading in their direction—the hunters had seen. Feliks seemed to have heard as well, as he had become very still.

A series of muffled voices, and the harsh snap of a rifle being cocked.

Feliks's chest began rising and falling again, this time with dizzying rapidity. Tino squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his nose into the Pole's straw-coloured hair and wishing himself away from this place-back to a time when it was just he and Berwald, a simple time with hardly any threat of being hunted down and murdered like an animal out of frustration and nothing else. _But it isn't that time_, Tino suddenly thought, eyes flickering open, _and there's no use denying it now, is there? Denial in a time like this will earn you nothing but a bullet to the head_. He paused, glancing down to the cool machine in his right hand. His lips curled into an odd smile from behind his mask. How ironic—a gun from the country most the world feared, bringing such confidence.

The hunters spoke in low, gruff tones, save for one, which sounded somewhat familiar—a quiet, calm voice. Tino could not easily distinguish what language they spoke; that ruffled him, but he remained silent and attempted to pick out words he might know.

"Around here, around here. I saw them, I did. They went this way. I saw them."

"You idiot, you dragged us out here for this? Damn it. What the hell."

"Oh, never mind. They probably didn't have anything useful anyway."

Tino gave a long sigh of relief, but immediately regretted the gesture.

"What was that?"

There was a long pause filled only with the noise of boots crunching on ground and Tino's racing heartbeat. Feliks was whispering 'Liet, Liet, Liet' in a shaking, almost silent mantra into Tino's uniform. Tino was busy remembering what, exactly, he had done the last time he had been in a situation like this. The gun was beginning to feel heavy as lead in his palm. His ears strained to catch more from the hunters-and then came the familiar voice again. Tino's heart swooped when he realized the owner, and he nearly bolted from his place.

"Listen, could you just drop this whole thing? I'm sure it's just some stragglers, we can come back later, it's dark-"

Slap. The sudden smack made Tino flinch and shrink into the tree's decaying bark, his breathing once again picking up pace; a pair of glasses clattered to the ground beside his foot. He tried his best to ignore the similarity of the spectacles and readied his pistol, pushing sentimentality aside.

"Shut up, smart-ass! You said you were our Nation-"

"-so you're not supposed to back-talk us. If you wanna keep your legs, keep your mouth shut. Yes? We're hungry." Another voice cut in to interrupt his partner; this time the person had a grating, nasal tone that made Feliks wrinkle his nose.

But there had been no mistaking it. Eduard was with the hunters.

"I apologize...Though you're entirely wrong on what a Nation does for you, actually, so perhaps I should have elaborated-" Eduard began again, but this time he was silenced with a heavy thud. Tino winced again. He could feel the Estonian struggling for breath while he leaned against the fallen tree, barely inches from Tino's hand. The Finn paused, weighing his options, and subtly nudged Eduard his glasses. Eduard's heavily bruised, shadowed face jolted up to meet Tino's in surprise—a flicker of recognition—then the man placed his spectacles back onto his face and got to his feet without further indication that he had been briefly reunited with his Finnish friend.

"However, as your Nation, I can assure you there is nothing more to see here, gentlemen. It's best we get somewhere with light before the sky goes completely black. I feel a storm coming." Eduard stated coolly, rubbing the spot he had been struck with careful nonchalance. The men surrounding him mumbled to each other in tones ranging from anger to indifference before finally nodding their assent and heading off in the opposite direction. Their Nation moved in slow, deliberate steps until he was merely trailing behind; he gave one glance over his shoulder in Tino's direction, smiled a somewhat pitying smile, and hurried to catch up with the hunters.

Tino knew from that look Eduard was not going to live much longer. As soon as the Estonians were out of sight, Tino drew both himself and Feliks to their feet; Feliks clung to him, still nervous and fidgeting with the remaining tension. "Are they gone? I can't, like, hear them or nothin', but-"

"Yes, they're gone, _Puola_."

Tino glanced around the barren area before spotting the guiding protection of railroad tracks a short while away. He began to head towards them as if they were a lifeline—which they had been, recently, for the time the Finn spent following them when otherwise he would have been lost.

"Well, that was a close one, for sure." Feliks said while tripping over a rock before righting himself with a sense of embarrassment. Tino tucked the gun back into its holster, humming in agreement. "Mhmm, it really was. I wonder what they would have done if they had found us." Feliks shrugged, clearly not wanting to discuss the topic further. It suddenly occurred to Tino that Feliks was terrified of death—the reason for his constant uprising, his refusal to give up—and it was a given, seeing as the Pole's history was as it was. Tino felt strangely proud of himself for this analysis, but an odd, dark feeling twisted in his stomach reminded him that he was hardly any different.

He cleared his throat and picked up his pace. Feliks groaned lazily and continued at his regular walk, unwilling to move any faster. "Jeez, _Finlandia_, stop going so fast. Are we in a, like, hurry or something?"

"No, I just thought we should make up for lost time. Come on, don't drag your feet, _Puola._"

"Wasn't that Eduard with those creepers back there? I totally could have swore I heard someone talking about being a Nation, n' stuff, but I can't be sure, 'cause I didn't really understand what they were saying..." Tino froze, and Feliks collided into his back.

Tell the truth and turn back, or continue on with a lie? Tino chose the latter—if Feliks was told that Eduard was still alive, he would insist upon going back to retrieve him, no matter if it would not be worth it; the Estonian's physical appearance clearly told he would not be surviving in these conditions for any longer than a few more days. The thought throbbed like an open wound in Tino's mind. "No, it wasn't. You must have misheard. Sorry, _Puola, _but you shouldn't get your hopes up so often about finding more Nations."

Feliks's expression changed abruptly from somewhat cheerful to downright sorrowful in a matter of seconds. Guilt gnawed at Tino's entire being for the lie. "Oh. Yeah, you're right. Sorry. I was just, y'know...hoping, I guess. Stupid of me." The guilt was beginning to grow physical and prickling, strange, as Tino didn't have that strong of a conscience-"'Cause, like, if Eduard was alive, maybe Liet would be, too. I can't help but thing about that, y'know, _Finlandia_? It's on my mind twenty four-seven, I swear." Feliks rambled on, and Tino's chest began to constrict. The pin-like irritation was spreading to blotches of pain, and the Finn noticed his breath was coming in scathing gasps that wracked his body and made his hands tremble. He tore the protector from his face and threw it to the ground. The gesture burned his joints.

Finland was being attacked.

Feliks noticed the light click of Tino's mask being removed and paused in his rant. "_Finlandia_? What's up?" When Tino could only reply in a quiet croak the blond Pole began to panic, dropping to Tino's side with his hands roving blindly over his form in a useless attempt to find the source of pain. Tino felt each gunshot fired internally, and groaned again, pressing his face into the cool ash. Feliks was asking so many questions, but they were lost in the sound of war that clamored in Tino's head—a thundering surge that crashed again and again, screaming at the top of its lungs to surrender. Tino wanted to yell back _I will never_, but his people's voice were louder as a cry of defeat. The attackers obliged, and the Finn's world was smothered into peaceful white.

When Tino regained consciousness, he was quite alone.

* * *

A/N: Translations:  
O mój Boże, Finlandii, nie ruszaj się; Polish- Oh my god, Finland, don't move (Thanks Anon for the translation help!)

Hey again, guys! Sorry for the long hiatus in updates. I was in Switzerland. I swear, that's the most beautiful place I've ever visited, and the food was so good~ especially the pastries and gelato haha! Vash must be, like, a master chef and model or something lol. His country is gorgeous. =7=

Also, a big thank you to everyone who has left reviews and/or favourited this or any of my other stories! You have no idea how grateful I am for your feedback. I'm very thankful for each and every bit, and I never could have hoped to receive as much as I have. Again, thank you so much! 3

On a story-based note, it's back to Finland and Poland again! Poland is so fun to write, but I can never quite manage to portray Finland correctly. They're both such interesting characters, and I hate to butcher their characterization like I do in my writing. ;u;;

Ah, I feel terrible for killing off Estonia. I guess his luck finally ran out, the poor guy. And Finland's, too, I guess. By the by, Finland and Sweden were both neutral throughout the war. In their neutrality, the two were close to bonding into a political union of countries, but the two remained separate nations. Even so, the two closed off a large portion of foreign relations and their people prepared for the coming end of the war—hence making both Finland and Sweden countries that were neither hurt nor helped. That is not to say they were not affected. Both Sweden and Finland suffered casualties, having been so near to Russia, geographically. As I may or may not have mentioned before, the war spread, and the bombs spread even further, reaching countries that were not even vaguely involved. Like it or not, no one can chose how far ash and radiation travels.

...On that lovely note, please leave your thoughts and feelings! Thank you for reading!


	12. Chacun voit midi à sa porte

**Everyone Sees Noon At His Door**

Disclaimer: Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.

* * *

"_Mon ami_, you must eat. Sitting there all day and sulking is not going to do you any good." Francis chided as he set down a makeshift tray of watery tea and bread before the Briton. Arthur made no response aside from turning his face away from the Frenchman and staring pointedly out the window—the same reaction he had made every time he had been offered nutrition for the past several days. The lack of supplement had began to show on the blond's physical appearance; his high cheek-bones had become gaunt with hunger, and the mess of hair become more like straw from day to day. Francis gazed upon the man's face for a while before giving a sigh of defeat and sitting upon the edge of the over-sized bed to rub at his beard in contemplation.

The Frenchman's home was more or less still standing, as it had been built surprisingly strong with a firm foundation—yet outer sections of the building were completely decimated. The destruction spread slowly inward from day to day, with more planks of wood falling in and bricks becoming displaced, cornering the inhabitants to the center. Francis hadn't gained the work ethic to stop it.

"Are you still looking for him, Arthur? Because I hope you realize he isn't going to just show up out of the blue. He's gone, Arthur, you saw it happen yourself." Francis stated while prying off a piece of bread for himself and sipping disdainfully at the murk of tea. He noticed Arthur's eyes flicker towards his with a sheen of pain, but the emotion was quickly dulled into frustration and the Briton nestled into the down pillows, scowling. Since Arthur's nervous system had taken to failing sporadically in his arms and legs, he had become nothing more than a useless, grouchy doll that lay in Francis's bed day and night, alone, with the occasional change in expression when darkness fell. As soon as Arthur succumbed to sleep, he would sob and moan the most horrible noises Francis's ears had ever taken in. It terrified both Francis and Arthur alike, yet both chose to completely neglect any sort of recognition such an act took place.

"Listen, _Angleterre—_this tea is horrendous stuff, as all tea is, and I want to be rid of it, so drink, would you?" Francis began again, his voice taking on a teasing tone while he leaned forward and sloshed the mug nearby Arthur's face. The Englishman gave a low warning growl, swatting helplessly at Francis's hand. Francis just laughed and shoved the cup against Arthur's cheek, pleased to have Arthur actually _react_ for once. Eventually Arthur grew aggravated and snatched the mug from the Frenchman, gulping its contents down; Francis grinned in triumph while Arthur grimaced from the pale taste of the tea.

"Bloody hell, Francis, what is that swill? It can't possibly be from my house," grumbled the Englishman, green eyes glaring daggers at the offender, "because I make wonderful tea. And give me some of that bread, I'm starved." He continued, snatching the food up before Francis could make a comment. The taught smirk that had found its way onto Arthur's face did not go unnoticed by his companion. Francis soon found himself imitating the look and went to pour the two of them another cup of tea.

Francis had just killed the fire when he heard a loud slam from the front door. Arthur shouted profanities of surprise, and Francis could hear the Englishman attempting to remove himself from the bed. Another slam, this time from upstairs. Francis rolled his eyes and headed for the entryway.

He had not been expecting Heracles of all people to be standing in the doorway with a mangy cat at his side.

"Are...you busy?"

Francis blinked, trying to clear the fog of surprise from his mind. Heracles shifted onto one foot, itching lazily at the scarred, nearly intelligible side of his face. His left arm and leg had not faired much better; they too were covered in black, ragged marks that made him appear fading away. The fact that Heracles had not done anything to hide it, Francis thought, was all too expected of the Grecian.

"Why, not at all, _mon chéri_! Do come in, it's raining terribly today." Francis said with a sense of grandeur while he swept out of the doorway to let Heracles and the ragged black mop of a feline inside. The house itself seemed to give a low groan as it sagged under the added weight, however small. Heracles nodded appreciatively, scooping his pet to his chest with one arm. "Thanks for letting me in... It's been a long ways from Bulgaria to here." The well-muscled Grecian paused to shake the rain from his tangled brown hair, or what had not been burned away. Francis's nose wrinkled in disapproval, but he managed to remain quiet. The Frenchman's features soon returned to their natural, flamboyant state, and he grinned. "Tea for you, _ma belle_ Heracles?" He said, already beginning to pour a cup for himself, having forgotten Arthur completely in favor of his new guest.

There came a thunderous noise from the upper floor, followed by a string of bellowed curses; "Sodding bloody hell, what in the name of Elizabeth I is going on down there, you nymphomaniac, frog-faced son of a--"

Heracles drew his gaze slowly upward, staring in blank contemplation at what could have possibly made such noise. Francis gave a long-winded sigh, before answering the best way he knew to explain--

"Arthur."

"Oh. I see. Are you two friends again now?"

Francis laughed—mostly because he was entirely unsure of how to respond. "Ah, Heracles, you know _Angleterre—_always getting himself into messes he can't escape alone." It hadn't been a real answer, but it would do for now, he supposed. "Tea?" Heracles hummed, taking his time as he always had, before nodding his head. "Yes, thank you. Do you have any milk? Theseus walked a long way, too...he's thirsty." Francis barely hid his bark of laughter with a cough. Heracles hadn't seemed to notice, but his cat leveled Francis with a nearly-human glare. "Oh, don't I wish. Your cat will have to do with water, or tea—that's all that's left. Ironic, _non_?" Heracles's single sea-green eye squinted in confusion, and he tipped his head to the side; Francis tried his hardest to ignore the thick charcoal-coloured scab that smeared its way across Heracles's face and stopped mercifully a short ways over the bridge of his nose, though the task was difficult for the Frenchman. The wounds were not easily overlooked. "What's...ironic about that?"

"Nothing, nothing. I did enjoy a good glass of wine, though, it's certainly a shame that not much is left now--"

"I'm surprised your house is still holding up so well...the war ruined most of the world, or so I've heard." Heracles interrupted, his voice a drawl of calm. Francis turned to look at him, perfectly trimmed eyebrows risen in surprise. Heracles continued as he set Theseus upon the floor to roam around; "My place, as you can probably see, didn't do so well...the whole left area burned out. Radiation hasn't set in yet, but I suppose it will soon...I guess that's what happens when four countries fire nuclear weapons around the same time...doesn't end nicely. At least it got Turkey out of the picture." Francis's nerves did not allow him to pretty up his emotions this time; he frowned, and nearly slopped his tea onto his already soot-covered shirt. "You don't say! Dear old _Turquie_, dead? That's unheard of, _la folie, je dis!_" The Frenchman exclaimed, baffled by the fact that a strong Nation like Sadiq could be brought down in one fell blow. And Francis had been right—a Nation falling so quickly _had_ been unheard of, until recently. Heracles merely shrugged his wide shoulders and mumbled 'good riddance.'

Francis was only allowed several moments to digest the shocking information before a certain Briton interrupted. "Hey! Don't ignore me, you stupid, git-faced wino slob! Answer me!" Arthur's voice from above rose to a screech—curses were thrown down the stairs like poorly aimed knives—and Francis finally decided he should take action upon it.

"Excuse me for a moment, won't you? It seems as though my house-mate is being difficult." _Again_, Francis added in his mind sardonically while climbing the staircase, another cup of watery tea in hand. He opened the door to find the Englishman sprawled onto the hardwood, face flushed, thin lips slightly parted and ready to spew more profanities.

Francis's hand flew up to his mouth to cover laughter. Arthur dried his humor with a murderous green look.

"Keep your stupid frog-face shut and help me up." The Frenchman did as told, although chuckles did slip once or twice while doing so. Arthur slapped his shoulder and stared pointedly at the away.

When the Englishman had been returned to his resting place, he spoke, though his words were sharp-cutting as barbed wire; "So, who's downstairs? Another female citizen of yours offering her services in exchange for food?"

Francis disregarded the implication of Arthur's question and instead gave a sly grin. "Are you jealous, _Angleterre_?"

Ah, yes. That was how Arthur's face should look; beet-red with embarrassment and brows thick as caterpillars low on his eyes. "You—you fatuous, frog-faced pervert! I—I ought to--" The blond sputtered, his thin fingers groping around for something to throw. Eventually he decided upon a pillow, and chucked it squarely toward Francis's face. Francis, having much expertise in dealing with projectile objects, caught it, and readied the pillow to be used as a shield.

"Tell me who's downstairs and I won't rip each strand of your beard out slowly and painfully."

Francis knew Arthur was not all bark and no bite, and, deciding that he rather liked his manly stubble, lowered the pillow. Arthur sat impatiently before him, arms crossed and still fuming. However, now he had become more curious than angry, thus warranting safety for his French companion.

"Well, Arthur dear, you aren't going to believe this, but our old friend _Grèce _has come to visit." When Arthur gave him a look of utter disbelief, Francis shrugged and continued, "He's waiting downstairs as we speak."

The Briton somehow seemed more convinced as he glanced at the doorway. "Is he alright?"

Francis paused to wrinkle his nose, and leaned toward Arthur with a lowered voice. "I should say not, _Angleterre_. He looks worse off than you did when I first found you. And that is saying something."

Arthur opened his mouth in indignation before silencing himself, knowing Francis's words to be true. When he had seen himself in a mirror, he had literally yelled in fear; the burns, the dark circles of his eyes, the torn skin—memory of the sight even now terrified him. A tremble flew down his dysfunctional spine at the thought.

Francis then surprised him by placing a smooth hand upon his, and again when he found the Frenchman's expression to be devoid of its usual vanity and holier-than-thou smirk. Arthur found the change unsettling, and wanted desperately to drag his hand away. His nerves failed him, leaving his arm useless to retaliate. Francis brushed his thumb across the top of Arthur's limp hand, causing another shock down the Englishman's back.

Francis's bright blue gaze locked with his, and Arthur found himself unable to look away. A strange feeling, different to the usual hatred he held towards the other, bubbled warm in his stomach.

"Arthur, we both know we cannot exist alone."

Arthur felt his heart's rhythm begin to grow somewhat quicker. This, too, was disconcerting.

"_Nous avons besoin les uns les autres pour survivre_." Francis paused to move closer, gripping Arthur's hand ever tighter. Arthur swallowed nervously; he didn't like the direction this conversation was going. "You and I both know this. Our people are in terrible shape. But it doesn't have to be this way for long...not if we unify."

Arthur's heart clenched, halting all breath meaning to travel for forming words. Francis leaned in, his lips unnervingly close to his companion's. The blue eyes were trained on Arthur's, forcing him still.

"May I kiss you, Arthur?"

_Slap_.

Arthur was grateful for the sudden return of control in his limbs. Francis remained still for a fraction of a moment, thinking over the Englishman's reaction, and drew away.

"I see. Well, I can't say I was expecting otherwise. You're a slave to rejection, aren't you, _mon ami_?" Those words stung almost physically. Arthur scowled and broke the eye contact between them by staring out the window. Francis merely sighed and stood, looking unaffected by what had just taken place.

"I'll tell _Grèce_ you'll see him later, I suppose." The Frenchman said with an air of indifference, his hand resting on the ornate doorknob and his violence-pinked faced turned fully toward him. The smug look had returned to his lips, and it came to Arthur's realization that he had been played. The entire proposal had been a trick for laughing about later, in the absence of the Briton's company. "Rest up, now, _Angleterre_. You've got years of laying around useless in my bed to look forward to tomorrow."

Arthur's hatred of the man returned in full force, and he pressed his face into the Frenchman's downy pillows to stifle a yell of frustration. Francis stifled nothing but a chuckle while he descended the stairs before calling out for Heracles to chat upon matters of little importance.

* * *

A/N: Translations:  
la folie, je dis- madness, I say  
Turquie- Turkey  
Nous avons besoin les uns les autres pour survivre-We need each other to survive

Grèce- Greece

Ohoho France, you're such a jerk to poor Iggy. And sort of a jerk in general, but we love you anyway.

I swear this fic gets more depressing with every chapter. I feel so badlyyyy~  
Also, if people have caught on to the fact that the chapter titles are actually proverbs from different countries, virtual cookies for you! :D

And again, I'll write _two_ oneshots with any pairing of your choice! First call first serve! ...which makes no sense for this case but w/e. The offer still stands.

Anyhow, please review and leave your opinions with me! Thanks very much for reading!


	13. Vom Regen in die Traufe

**Out of the rain and into the eaves **

Disclaimer: Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.

* * *

Antonio pressed his nose to Lovino's hair, thinking to himself for the fifty-seventh time in the past several days that he was eternally grateful for the Italian's presence; Lovino stirred in his arms, mumbling, but did not wake. Antonio smiled and bent to kiss his brow.

Gilbert made a face.

"Oh, shut up, Gilbert. It's adorable and you know it." Elisaveta snapped, giving a disapproving glance toward her albino friend. Roderich grumbled sleepily, turning away from the noise and throwing an arm over his ears. Elisaveta's face immediately softened at the gesture, and she gave her husband a loving squeeze around the middle. He muttered something intelligible and patted her hand.

Antonio grinned at the scene and took to cuddling the brunet in his arms again, thankful for the warmth both Lovino and the blanket provided. Lovino muttered again in his sleep; his slurred words were this time easily understood, and their meaning made the Spaniard's heart flutter. Elisaveta giggled.

Gilbert rose abruptly from the ground, looking as if he were going to be sick. "I'm gonna check on Feli."

Antonio paid him no heed as he snuggled closer to Lovino, cooing and gently petting his hair. Elisaveta propped herself onto her elbows, eyebrows raised in confusion. "Why? I'm sure he's fine. He said he wanted to be by himself, and he's just sitting outside. I can see his curl from here." The Hungarian inquired, squinting outside. Gilbert shrugged.

"I just want to tell him some stuff Lud—" The words lodged themselves in Gilbert's throat, and it was necessary to clear them with a cough. "Some stuff my brother wanted him to know."

Elisaveta looked unconvinced, but made no comment and laid her head down beside Roderich's with a stifled yawn. "Alright, but don't be too long. Watch out for the usual, and yell if you need anything." Gilbert grunted in assent and headed out of the makeshift shelter.

Feliciano sat-as expected-before the tiny bonfire, his auburn eyes tired yet trained fixedly on the flames. He did not react when Gilbert took a seat beside him.

"Hey. You alright?"

The boy nodded, glancing once in his direction. Gilbert scooted closer.

"How's your hand?"

Feliciano shifted his bandaged hand onto his lap and picked at it with the other, biting his lip. "It's...better. It stopped bleeding, anyway." His voice was small, rough. He forced a smile. "It doesn't hurt so much anymore."

Gilbert frowned as he studied Feliciano's face. Elisaveta had cleaned most of the grime from his cheeks, but his eyes had remained red around the rims, and his face remained devoid of its usual colour. Feliciano seemed realize the Prussian's scrutiny and turned away to stare at the fire.

"Feli, Ludwig-" Gilbert's voice failed, as it always did when he spoke his brother's name recently; Feliciano took the title no better and his chest began to expand and contract with unhealthy rapidity. A few tears dribbled down the Italian's face. Gilbert glanced away in shame before continuing; he was desperate to get his brother's last words off his conscience, despite the reaction. "Feli, Ludwig wanted you to tell you something. Seemed like he knew he wasn't going to-" Again his throat went raw with emotion, but he continued, hating how his voice wavered. "He wasn't going to make it through...and I was."

Feliciano was openly sobbing now, though his glazed eyes were concentrated on Gilbert's. Gilbert saw Elisaveta's face appear from the camp's entrance for a moment in his peripheral vision, but she soon retreated back inside, sensing the atmosphere.

Gilbert carried on, wiping absently at the edge of his eyelid. "I've got something in my eye—anyway, L-Ludwig told me he had something to tell you, and he asked me to pass it on if-when-I got the chance."

Feliciano's hand roved for Gilbert's, and when he found it, grasped it tightly. His crying had subsided to silence, though tears still ran thick. Gilbert took in a deep breath, breaking eye contact with the other man.

"He said, 'Ever since the 900's, I've always, always loved him. Tell him that, and to look after himself.' Yeah." The albino finished lamely, willing his hands to stop shaking. He wiped again at the foreign feel of wetness on his eyelashes and focused on the muddy ground.

Feliciano had frozen as if the words were rebounding in his head and making it difficult to think properly. The words had hooked at his throat, and breathing became a struggle.

"It should have been me." Though the Italian at his side shook his head numbly in response, Gilbert continued, his words spat out like glass shards; "I'm not even a Nation. I didn't have the burden of people, of land, of children, to look after like Ludwig did. I've been around so much longer, and he had you, and you need him, and _I _still need him, that bastard. That bastard of a brother of mine."

Later, Gilbert would deny all evidence of burying his face into his hands and giving a quiet whimper. It was the single noise of helplessness the Prussian had uttered since he had been born.

Feliciano drew in a careful, stinging breath. He exhaled. He gripped Gilbert's shoulder.

He was useless.

"I'm sorry."

"'I'm sorry' isn't going to bring anyone back, Feli."

Gilbert and Feliciano sat, _Ludwig Ludwig Ludwig _and _I'm sorry_ replaying in their lonely minds, respectively.

"I think family is the most important thing." Feliciano whispered after a long, half-baked moment. Gilbert didn't raise his head, offering only a broken laugh in reply. Feliciano ate down a gulp of smoggy air and spoke again. "My Grandpa told me that when I was little."

"Yeah, but your Grandpa's dead too, kid." Gilbert replied in a raspy hiss, red eyes flickering to the brunet curled beside him. Feliciano began to whisper something to himself; a whisper with a tune, Gilbert realized after several minutes.

The song was too familiar. It hurt.

"Shut up, Feliciano. Shut up _now_." Gilbert snarled as he leaped to his feet, fists clenched and teeth bared. The notes died on their way out of Feliciano's throat. The two Nations stared at each other, blood red versus tired auburn.

Feliciano began again, his soft-featured face now turned gently away and tilted somewhat to the left. "...And when we shared them, they became easier to bear; you comforted me in my distress, and I wept in your laments..." Gilbert's first impulse was to strike Feliciano across the cheek, and he took it. The noise of the attack bellowed out into the night air. It left its mark, a stinging pink-red print, on the little Italian's face.

Gilbert's second impulse was to speak the words he swore never to say, not to a conquering enemy with the upper hand in the Middle Ages, nor to his weakening brother in the burning cold of World War II; "I'm sorry."

Feliciano's breath hitched, and his hand trailed slowly to his cheek. It rested there, three fingers barely grazing the bruise's surface. His neck was twisted awkwardly to the side in a position that begged Gilbert to hit again; it was a forgiving gesture, one that made Gilbert feel sick to look upon it. He actually felt bile surge into his throat when a tear rolled down Feliciano's marred face. "It's okay. I understand." The little Italian whispered, though the wet-glazed hurt in his eyes told differently. He _didn't_ understand. And how could he? The attack was unprovoked, save for a quiet song that Gilbert should have held his temper for. The Prussian felt his stomach prickle with guilt.

"_Es tut mir leid_." He said again, this time in his native language. Feliciano choked out an odd noise—a combination of hitched breath and the word 'no'.

"What?"

"You sound too much like him." Feliciano paused before promptly bursting into hysterical sobs, burying his face in his knees. Gilbert laid a hand on his hair but Feliciano remained inconsolable, trembling, and suffocated by his own emotion. His companion became truly worried when Feliciano's breathing pattern grew spasmodic and ragged. This wasn't how Feliciano cried, Gilbert reminded himself, and, gripping the other's hand tightly, called into the Nation's makeshift camp; "Elisaveta!"

The brunette arrived no later than seconds called and glared at Gilbert with accusation when she saw Feliciano's condition. "What the hell did you say to him?"

"I-" The Prussian's mind fished for words. He could find none suitable, though his subconscious saved him the silence and spoke aloud. "I'm sorry."

Elisaveta hurriedly took a seat beside Feliciano and gently moved him to her slumber-warm side, avoiding all further eye-contact with the albino. Feliciano's breathing was censored in spaces and replaced with unintelligible words. Elisaveta hushed him with all the tenderness she could muster in her sleep-deprived state, and Gilbert watched with his hands at his sides, feeling more miserable than he ever had in his life.

"Gilbert, go get Lovino. Now." Elisaveta said suddenly, breaking the crackle of fire and Feliciano's noise. Gilbert obeyed-a rare but necessary action-and headed inside to pry Antonio's arms rather forcefully from Lovino and yank the Italian to his feet.

He was met with a fist to the face, a series of Italian swears, and a flurry of very threatening Spanish words—none of which he had expected or appreciated. As soon as Gilbert recovered from pain and shock, he lowered his hands to see Antonio wearing the most bloodthirsty expression Gilbert had ever seen on his naturally carefree features—and that was saying something, as he had observed Antonio in war more than once. The Spaniard was bent into a slight crouch with one hands crooked into a twitching claw. The other held a shiny black gun that matched the gleam of Antonio's eyes and had the barrel directed at Gilbert's chest. Gilbert felt his breath catch but remained firm. Lovino gripped the muddied cloth of Antonio's shirt, his mouth agape.

"It's me! It's me—Gilbert!" The albino explained hurriedly, loosing a step or two in order to avoid the harsh feel of a gun against his skin. Antonio readjusted his hold on Lovino's waist and blinked several times. Recognition returned with each fluttering eyelid. "Gilbert? _Es la suya personal_?"

"Yes, that's what I just said, you _dummkopf_. Put the gun down already. I just need Lovino, Feliciano's having a panic attack or something." Gilbert returned in a low snarl to avoid waking Roderich, who remained sleeping peacefully on the ground by his feet. Lovino muttered a drowsy curse, relinquishing his hold on his partner's shirt. Antonio returned the pistol to its holster and smiled apologetically.

"_Lo siento, y_ou just woke me up so suddenly—it was a reflex. Is your nose okay?"

Gilbert waved him off. "It's fine. Like I said, I just need Lovino." Lovino rubbed the sleep from his eyes and glanced, his expression unreadable, to Antonio. The Spaniard squeezed his hand in comfort, grinning, yet his eyes still trained carefully on his albino friend. Lovino then released Antonio from his iron grip and headed out the entrance in a quick walk.

Gilbert glanced to Antonio and found himself looking sharply away, guilt boiling in his stomach for some unnamed reason. The personification of Spain's eyes, green as his homeland's fields in spring, made him sick to make contact. They reminded him too much of old times, when the world was big and fresh and _alive_-

Antonio sat down and ran a hand through his hair while placing the pistol back by his bedside. Feliciano whimpers could be heard from inside the tent, and each tear-strained plea for Ludwig made Gilbert's heart twist. But there was no Ludwig; there was only Antonio, Lovino, Elisaveta, and some of the once-proud Roderich.

And there was Gilbert. Prussia, the country of war and never-say-die, had been eroded away to nothing more than a pale, shaking man in the dark who had too many regrets in his head and not enough food in his stomach.

The same could be said for everyone in Innsbruck that night.

* * *

A/N: Translations-  
Es tut mir leid- I'm sorry  
Es la suya personal?- Is that you?

Weeeeell this chapter certainly was the champion of angst. Gilbert really is wrecked, though, and I feel kind of bad. He was so awesome before I wrote him into a slump. Poor guy.

Also, if you want the song that inspired this chapter, look up "The Fire" by Imogen Heap. It's truthfully one of the most gorgeous songs I've ever heard, and I certainly didn't do it justice here. Even so, please listen to it when you have the chance! ;u;;

...aaaand I apologize for the wordiness/poetic-ishness of this chapter, too. I had just finished re-reading "The Book Thief" when I started writing it. Again, I encourage you to read that book—it's one of the only books I've ever read that's made me cry, and that's saying a lot. It's an amazing story.

Thank you, everyone, for your lovely comments and support! I really do appreciate it! If you spot any errors, please tell me, because I don't have a beta haha.

Please leave a review if you'd like! Thank you for reading! C:


	14. Anfangen ist leicht, beharren eine Kunst

**To Begin is Easy, To Persist is Art**

Disclaimer: Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.  
Soundtrack: Bibo No Aozora by Ryuichi Sakamoto

* * *

Feliks hit the ground again and drew his head back up with a slightly bloody lip. The warmth of his own body was growing less in the bitter cold of...he wasn't sure where he was. West? North? Away from Finland, in any case.

He _hoped _he was moving away from Finland.

"This sucks." The Pole croaked, rubbing his sore chin and drawing himself halfway upright. "This really, totally sucks." As if to emphasize his point, burning cold rain began bucketing down. With an annoyed snort that somehow splintered into a dejected sniffle, Feliks pulled his sopping wet bangs from his face out of habit; not that it would make any difference if they were there or not. No one, not even Feliks, could see them now. He wasn't impressing anyone.

However, with a stroke of luck and the right amount of light, the blonde had began to see silhouettes. Faint silhouettes, but images none the less. However, in the dark Feliks was blind as before—hence the difficulty he was having now.

Drawing his legs underneath his thick plastic cloak, the Pole felt his stomach give a long growl of hunger, and soon after, a spasm of pain; the Nation had not eaten in four days. He nibbled at a few clumped strands of hair that clung to the skin nearby his lips and sighed, wishing for a certain Lithuanian to invite him into a warm home and give him warm food—

Sudden dizziness made him sway and fall back onto the soppy ground. Feliks vaguely wondered, not for the first time in the past week, if the flakes of ash floating atop the murky water's surface were edible. Then he remembered what Tino had said—Tino, who had been so good to Feliks and _given him food_, had been captured by Yao...and Feliks had done nothing but run. He couldn't bring himself to fight an enemy he couldn't see. That had been Alfred's job.

As Feliks laughed in a famine-induced haze at the sky, several drops of the oil-thick rain landed on his tongue. "Well, at least I, like, get to die in the rain. I bet I must look pretty damn cool right now—like a tragic hero or somethin'. Right Liet?"

"Who's Liet?"

Feliks shrieked and scuttled to his feet, grabbing at the mud for a weapon to defend himself, but instead found his hand holding nothing and his entire body following after, over the side of a cliff of some sort with fear clouding his thoughts—

"Woah, careful!" The electric touch of a fellow Nation had caught him, pulling him back onto somewhat solid ground. Feliks took in a cautionary breath and brushed his fingers over the material of his savior's skin, but was angered to find the other was wearing gloves; thick leather gloves, to be exact. He focused his mistrusting glare in what he hoped was the direction of his companion and huffed. "Who the hell are you?"

Feliks's companion drew in a deep breath and scratched their head; a grating noise that made Feliks flinch. The other Nation hadn't had a bath in as long as he had, obviously, and his hair was brittle as straw. This was something Feliks learned from not being able to flat-iron—or even properly wash—his hair in the past year.

The other spoke, their voice rough, embarrassed; "This is going to sound odd, but I'm not sure who I am at all. Which is strange." The stranger paused to wipe his hands on the front of his pants, "Isn't it?"

Feliks grunted out an agreement, still wary of the Nation that had surely saved him the trouble of broken bones. One couldn't be too careful nowadays, after all. "Uh, yeah. That's _so_ totally weird. Do you have a name, though? Or, like, a country to identify with?" He questioned, brushing his flat hair from his eyes and squinting as hard as he could at the Nation before him. Only a blurry figure with mussed blonde hair for a fraction of a second, and it was gone before any other features could be found. Feliks rubbed at his sore eyelids afterward while still attempting to glare his companion into submission.

"Germany."

Feliks froze. The stranger swallowed and fidgeted awkwardly on his feet. "Yes. I believe I represent Germany. But other than—"

"That's a lie. Germany died, I know he did! _Finlandia_ told me, he told me there was no one there when he was looking for survivors—"

The other Nation interrupted with a sputter, though his voice returned, it was with a slightly offended tone; "Well, I guess '_Finlandia' _didn't look hard enough, because here I am! Alive and," Germany then paused to cough violently into his leather gloves, but continued all the same; "and standing!" Feliks stared for a long time at nothing, thinking; he felt Germany's eyes on his face, offense and unrestrained curiosity beating against his skin in waves. He didn't want to answer any of the questions the German was preparing to ask. He didn't want to be anywhere near this man. He hated it. He hated Germany.

"We should get out of the rain."

"You should, like, shove off."

Feliks heard Germany draw in a long, crackling breath. "Did I know you?" Feliks literally bit his tongue and rubbed at the back of his neck. The gesture hurt; his joints popped in protest, leaving Feliks with little option than to let his hand drop to his side. Germany's gaze did not waver. It felt as though he were being watched by a patient, vicious dog.

A dog was all Feliks could think when 'Germany' came to mind. Yes. A big black dog with a snarling tan muzzle. A big black dog with eyes the colour of the sky on a nice day that tended to narrow at him and break him down into shyness, a big black dog that was barking out exclamations Feliks suddenly didn't understand and _oh god Liet where are you I don't want to be alone_—!

Feliks tottered backwards until he hit the muddy ground with a splash. Germany's hands were warm as they drew him up, and he found he sort of liked the smell of ash and mud, a scent that clung to the German's clothes in patches. Things ended.

_I should have listened to Liet back then. If I had listened, maybe I would still be able to see. I miss him. I miss Elisaveta. I miss seeing things. But here I can. Why's that?_

"Liet_?"_

_ "_It's nice to see you again, Feliks."

"Liet, I miss you."

_ Toris smiles back and takes my hand in his. He looks happier, peaceful than I had seen him in the past few, long, long years._

_ "_And I miss you too, Feliks. I'll always miss you very much. But I'm not too lonely here, don't worry!" _His hand brushes my cheek once, staying there for a few moments before dropping to his side. He's smiling his tired, ragged smile, but the lines that had grown to mark its corners were gone and replaced with something foreign. I can't place it, but I like it. I like it a lot._

_ "_Where are you, Liet?"

_ "_Here." _He makes a gesture with his hands to the faded city surrounding us; it's a place with lots of fog and clock towers. Mountains are in the distance. The sky is off-white with occasional spots of gray, like an artist had flicked his paintbrush lazily at a canvas._

_ "_Y'know what, Liet? I like 'here'. Those towers or whatever totally make the place_."_

_ Toris laughs with me and places his hands in his pockets. I tell him my approval of his outfit, and he laughs again. The laugh is free and hangs in the air, though not uncomfortably._

_ It is a few moments after that I realize this place might be the place I had been fearful of my entire life. I might be dead._

_ "_Hang on. Is this heaven, Liet?"

_ Toris glances back down from the smoggy sky in surprise at the squeaking, horrified tone my voice had suddenly taken. He pauses, stares for a moment at the cobblestone ground, then meets my gaze._

_ "_Uhm, that depends. Do you want it to be?"

_I don't know what to say to that, so I shrug. Toris hums in quiet contemplation, bringing a hand up to twist a few pieces of his hair between his fingers. He's looking sidelong at me with an expression I recognize well from centuries of knowing the Lithuanian and every one of the quirks that came with him; he's going to say or do something profound. I pause my foot from tapping impatiently and cross my arms to close up the shaking that threatens to crawl into the rest of me._

_ The scenery shifts. We're in a field of rye. I know this place, and Toris knows I know because he looks rather pleased with himself. He places his hands back in his pockets._

_ "_You remember this place, right?"

_The fear falls away the second I take the entire sight in._

"How could I forget? This is where I told you about Krakow's history and then you said something really boring, something to do with a bear—no offense, but it totally was—and later we kicked Prussia's sorry butt right nearby here! I totally remember now."

_ Toris's smile falters. "_You like it, then?"

_I nod enthusiastically at him. Toris doesn't say anything else for a long time, picking a few grains from its stalk. He lets them fall to the ground seconds after._

_ "_Something up, Liet?_"_

_ Toris sighs and rakes a hand through his hair, pausing midway with his eyes downcast. This unnerves me again. I like eye-contact with Toris. Without it, I'm worried he'll do something strange or rash or violent. Eye-contact, in the case of Toris, means safety._

_ "_I don't want to let you go back. I want you to stay here with me. Is that bad?"

_What does he mean, let me go ba-_

_ "_Oh."

_ He nods, the smile returning, but sheepish. His eyes still don't meet mine, and he awkwardly collects more rye into his pale, calloused hands. He makes several attempts to begin speaking again, but fails each time. I don't attempt to interrupt him. I don't want to go back, but I don't want to be dead, either._

_ Even if that means leaving Toris._

_ "_I'll meet you again, I suppose, but not for a long time. You're a strong person, Feliks. You won't...end as easily as I did." _Toris admits after a long silence, phrasing his words carefully with a furrowed brow. That dizzy feeling is back again, a pull back to reality, but I shove it away and stare pleadingly at the Lithuanian for more. He avoids me and his forehead crinkles with conflict. "_I don't think you will for a while, though, no."

"This isn't fair." _That was all I could manage. I felt my throat constricting as it always did when I fought with Toris. It was a stupid, childish thing, to cry out of anger. Toris shakes his head solemnly, saying nothing more than; "_Life's not fair, Feliks."

"But you're not _alive_, so it totally doesn't apply here—!"

_Toris chuckles suddenly, bending forward to envelop me in a hug; I only struggle against his hold for a fraction of a second before returning the embrace. He pets my hair once, head tilted somewhat to the side as he draws away. The image is growing black around the edges, not unlike a piece of burning paper curling in on itself, but I don't want to look away. Toris's face is pale, very pale, and I can tell he's struggling to keep his smile in tact._

_ "_I'll see you again. _Sudie, mano draugas_."

"_To nie jest sprawiedliwe, _Lie—"

When Feliks came to, it was still raining diligently and he was leaning against a warm, frail shoulder. He couldn't see who it belonged to but he clung to it anyway, pressing his face into the ashy fabric with a muffled Polish swear. The owner of the shoulder hand rested awkwardly on the small of Feliks's back; Feliks only attempted once to shove it away. The other obeyed immediately and returned his hand to his lap. They sat in silence for a long while.

"Are you hungry?" Germany suddenly questioned, breaking the quiet as he peeled open a container of some sort. Feliks's head automatically jerked in the affirmative, and the Pole was soon rewarded with a few stale slices of bread. He bit viciously into the first piece before remembering another time where the circumstances were nearly identical; Feliks then decided he wasn't hungry at all and set the remaining bread onto his knee. He could feel Germany's curious glare on him but he refused to meet it, instead choosing to twirl straw-like strands of hair between his fingers. "That bread tasted, like, totally gross." Germany's gaze fell. Feliks breathed a sigh of relief. "It tasted fine to me." The German said slowly, wet coughs punctuating his sentence. Feliks could smell blood afterward and it made his stomach churn.

"What language are we speaking now?" Germany asked, throat rough with sickness. Feliks attempted to speak several times before the words would come. "German." He hadn't even realized it until it came into question. This fact only contributed to his nausea.

"I see. That makes sense. And what country do you represent?"

"Poland."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

More silence. Germany began coughing again. Feliks shied into his cloak, the image of his friend's tattered smile clouding his mind. He was glad for it.

"Poland?"

Feliks visibly jumped, having forgot Germany's presence since becoming lost in his thoughts. He attempted to compose himself by brushing the folds out of his outfit and setting his face in an indifferent expression. "Yeah, what?"

Germany cleared his throat and rubbed his neck in an anxious manner; the noise was nails on chalkboard to the blind. Feliks glanced impatiently in his direction, scowling. "What is it, already? Go on and, like, spit it out."

"Where are we, do you suppose?"

Feliks blinked. "What, you mean you don't know?"

"_Nein_."

"Geez, you're worse than Feliciano. I swear, I have to, like, do everything by myse—"

Germany had suddenly stood, making Feliks topple onto the wet ground with a slight splash and breaking his train of thought with one swift motion; Feliks squawked in surprise and followed the German to his feet.

"Hey, _idioto! _At least tell me when you're going to do something like—"

"Who was Feliciano to me." It hadn't been a question—no, it had been a demand. A demand which had consequences of violence if not answered. Feliks struggled to drain the fear from his voice before speaking, to hold his head high rather than at a position where he could be easily struck; "Feliciano was a friend of yours. No, wait. You two were totally more than that, but..." Feliks paused, taking a cautionary step back. "Don't you remember?"

"..._Nein_."

Another step back. "Feli would be crushed to hear that. This is, like, the third time now this has happened. That's kind of ridiculous, don't you think?" The Pole squinted hard to see Germany's expression, but the only images that appeared were smudged blobs of light. He _did_ hear a series of ash-powdered coughs, but otherwise, nothing. After several nervous minutes of quiet, he decided to speak. "Germany?"

Germany didn't respond in anything more than a muted whisper; Feliks strained his ears to hear fragments of the reply. What he caught made his heart clench and twist worse than Feliks thought it could when it came to Germany.

"_Gott schütze dich...Schütz und erhalt uns beide."_

"Can you remember anything else? Like, anything at all?" Feliks breathed once the German's voice had halted, staring wide-eyed at the other Nation as if his legs would give when he so much as blinked. Germany was quiet for a moment, responding with his voice lower than before and carrying all the regret a man without memories could.

"_Nein_."

* * *

Translations:  
Sudie, mano draugas_- _Goodbye, my friend.  
To nie jest sprawiedliwe- This isn't fair  
idioto- jerk (Thanks again, Anon, for the translation help!)  
nein- no  
"Ich Liebe Dich" lyric translation; "God bless you ... protect and keep us both_"._

Interpret Poland's meeting with Lithuania as you will. It can be heaven, purgatory, or just Poland's imagination; whatever you want to believe it was. In any case, Poland isn't dead and Germany isn't a zombie (ha ha!). Is it the same Germany as before? Maybe. Maybe not. Again, you can think what you'd like.

I didn't really like how this chapter came out in the end, but in any case, I apologize profusely for the wait! I was in Canada for a week and before that I was still busy with schoolwork. I'll work back to my usual standards, I swear. As for the angst, I blame 'Those You've Known" from Spring Awakening. Gorgeous song, you should look it up. :D

Also...who's point of view would you like to read from next? And while still on that train of thought, do you guys want to read more flashbacks? Just let me know in a review or a PM~

Feedback is my fuel! Please review/PM me to let me know your opinions! Thanks much!


	15. A név kötelez

**Nobility Obliges**

Disclaimer: Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.  
Soundtrack: Dying Away- Alexandre Desplat

* * *

The single thing Roderich enjoyed about high fevers were the dreams. He had often heard of how horrid they could be, forcing their victims to relive their worst moments or send them into fits of thrashing, but his were quite the opposite. His fever was near unbearable when he was not unconscious, yes, with the sudden flashes of overwhelming heat that worried Elisaveta so, but when his body could take no more it shut down with the ease of closing a violin case. When that change came upon him, he felt as though he were untouchable, a great empire once again with miles of land at his disposal; the dreams that came with that feeling were some of the best he had in his many years of life.

In fact, the dreams were usually _of_ the best years of his life.

To name the most frequent and by far the most pleasant dream; a woman in white clutching his delicate pianist's hands in hers—rough, scarred warrior's hands covered in silky white gloves for the occasion. The grip was a lifeline and an understanding between them, a silent agreement that _I will not leave you by my own choice_. They were equals now, with himself being no longer an aristocrat of unlimited power and Elisaveta no longer his servant. He bowed his head, feeling blush spread across his cheeks while uttering two words. The woman's green eyes blinked away any tears with the stubborn emotional strength she always had and gave her answer—as Roderich had hoped, it was the same two words as his own. A silence. He lifted the veil from her face tentatively only to have a pair of lips crushed onto his and a very excited Hungarian in his arms. He often awoke from this dream with a smile.

A smile that was quickly replaced with a frown when he awoke to find none other than the woman from his dream crouched over his side with her face pressed to his chest and tears wetting the fabric. She was no longer wearing white. She was not wearing a veil. And, most importantly, she was not happy.

One could soon see why Roderich preferred the dreams.

"Elisaveta?" Roderich's voice was hoarse as he drew himself into a sitting position, slowly reaching his arms around his wife's shaking shoulders. The Hungarian bit her lip and hastily wiped her cheeks dry, her face angled away from view. Roderich waited patiently until she composed herself, his fever-hazed brain struggling to make sense of the situation. Elisaveta, crying? Elisaveta did not cry. It was something that simply _did not happen_. Perhaps this was still a dream...?

"Sorry. I just..." The Hungarian in his arms struggled to keep her voice steady, raking the back of her hand clumsily along red eyelids, "...I don't know." Elisaveta sniffled with difficulty, smoothing down the wrinkles in Roderich's shirt. Roderich watched her actions carefully before deciding he rather wanted to know what provoked such emotion from a strong woman as Elisaveta. Slowly, he drew his wife closer against his chest, using his free hand to rub calming circles on her back—just as the instruction manual he had read so long ago told to do in such a scenario.

The effect, however, was quite unlike what the manual had promised. Elisaveta threw her arms around his neck and pressed her face to his collarbone, whispering in rapid Hungarian to herself. Roderich soon found it difficult to breathe and tried her name again. Elisaveta sat back onto the ground, staring intently at the Austrian before her. Roderich drew her hand to his lips and kissed it, as he was unsure of what else to do in terms of comfort; he had always been terrible with consolation, specifically consolations possibly regarding his own imminent death. Again, a scenario such as this was not one that could be related to in Roderich's vast prior knowledge.

"Elisaveta, what's the matter?" Roderich attempted with another kiss to Elisaveta's hand, eyes focused steadily on his wife. Elisaveta shook her head, her long brown hair partially covering her face from view; the trembling shoulders gave her emotions away, however. "Our vows. You were repeating our vows in your sleep, and...you were talking to Ludwig, and I just _couldn't_...!" Her hand was torn away from Roderich's hold, pressing the palms to her eyes and sobbing into them. The ensuing noise was odd, almost as if Elisaveta's body was not accustomed to crying. Roderich was sufficiently shocked into silence. His hands lay awkwardly in his lap as Elisaveta cried strange-sounding tears.

He truly, truly wished he knew what he was supposed to do or say. A part of him told him to take her back into his arms and tell her everything would be alright, though the other part told him that was a filthy lie, and Roderich did _not _tell lies to ladies. Least of all his wife.

Roderich wished he could still call himself an optimist, but after what his country, what he himself deteriorated to, he could not bring himself to think the glass half full.

"I apologize for upsetting you, Elisaveta."

Elisaveta dried her eyes in response but said nothing, avoiding Roderich's gaze. Roderich sighed and moved himself somewhat closer. "I truly am sorry, but I...am awake now." And he leaned in and kissed her firmly on the lips.

"It will be alright." He wished it were not a lie.

"I know."

Something suddenly twisted in Roderich's chest; Vienna. A tragedy of some sort. He drew gently away from Elisaveta's hold with a frown, attempting to focus on exactly what was happening, though he was not pleased to find the source of the trouble. Nausea gripped at his stomach for the mere thought of his people doing such monstrous _things_...!

"Roderich? What's the matter?"

Roderich took in a deep breath to cool himself down from making a potentially rash decision. This could not be. This was impossible. His people, surely, would not stoop so low? And could conditions really be so bad as to resort to—

"Roderich, look at me." He obeyed, attempting to keep the panic from his facial expression. Elisaveta easily saw past the calm and gripped his hands tightly in hers. "What's going on? You look like you're going to be sick." The Austrian drew in another raspy breath, feeling himself going into a cold sweat. "Actually, I think I might be. Please excuse me for a moment." With that, Roderich stumbled out of the makeshift camp and gagged. His glasses fell from his face. Elisaveta was soon patting his back in a steady rhythm, muttering quiet, calming words into his ear. It had the intended effect, and the nausea left as soon as it had started.

The Austrian rubbed at his temples as he took a seat beside his wife, attempting to halt the pounding in his ears and the sour feeling from his ill-rough throat. Elisaveta petted his hair and waited for an explanation, her breath hitching quietly every so often.

"We have to leave here. My house isn't safe anymore."

He did not look up to see Elisaveta's reaction. Another wave of nausea hit, though he swallowed it back down and adjusted his glasses. "What do you mean, your house isn't safe anymore, Roderich? I haven't seen anything worse than when Feliciano and Lovino were attacked." The Hungarian replied, her voice barely above a whisper. Roderich heard the concern in her tone; it made his heart twist to continue. "There are things happening in Vienna, Elisaveta. Terrible things. They will travel to Innsbruck soon, and I do not want us to be here when they arrive."

Elisaveta was gripping his shoulders now, and it hurt. Her fingernails were sharp as knives, and her voice was no longer a whisper. "What exactly is going on, Roderich?" Her tone was not questioning; it was a demand for an answer. Roderich rubbed at his eyes, sighing.

"I'd rather not elaborate. I fear I'll be sick again I do."

His wife did not look satisfied with the response, but didn't push the matter and pulled him close to her side. Roderich leaned his head atop hers and sighed once more. After several long, quiet moments, he found tears had appeared on both he and Elisaveta's faces. He did not comment, choosing instead to go on his previous urge to embrace the Hungarian. Sobbing unabashedly was not part of the previous comforting agenda, he thought to himself as Elisaveta kissed his cheek, but he could not manage to stop himself. Perhaps this is what he needed. What they both needed.

Roderich found he did not care much for the answer.

* * *

A/N: No translations this time! Well, the entire dialogue would be either German or Hungarian if it were written in the language Austria and Hungary were speaking. Oh well.

SHORT CHAPTER IS SHORT. I'm sorry, it was an attempt to get out of writer's block and it failed miserably. Sorry if this chapter is a disappointment after waiting so long, but I wanted to get it finished before I left for the good ol' UK! Yeah, I'll be heading back to my fatherland (haha) for two weeks with no internet, so there probably won't be another chapter for a while. Sorry. D:

Up next is another flashback I think certain shippers will enjoy. Specifically GerIta shippers. Hohoho.

As stated before, reviews are my fuel! Please review or PM me to let me know what you think! Thank you!


	16. Einmal ist keinmal

**Once is never, but twice is once too often **

DISCLAIMER: Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya  
Soundtrack: Watergate by Hans Zimmer, The Crisis by Ennio Morricone

* * *

"I am sorry it's come to this, ladies and gentlemen, but I'm afraid it is our only option. It is kill or be killed, and I will not allow you all to be the victims of this war!"

The protests died on each of the Nations' tongues; silence hollowed the room with only the human's words still rebounding off the walls. The human, a man who happened to be Ludwig's Boss, froze along with the Nations, as if realizing the more sinister meaning the words had carried for those around him. His mouth opened and closed several times, but each time the words died in his throat and he was cowed into quiet. His gaze drifted to the table and stayed there.

Louise, the personification of Belgium, suddenly brushed her hair aside in a flustered, frantic gesture; it did not, however, prevent her allies from seeing a mascara-tainted tear run down the blonde's face. Elisaveta remained stoic, her eyes trained solely on Ludwig's boss with all the impassiveness of one who accepted the consequences with grace; her husband's actions were likewise, with the slightest adjustment of glasses and a long drawn-out sigh. Vash, looking hawk-eyed and severe as ever, drew his sister close to his side and glared sullenly at the wall opposite himself—he had not sat down, had not accepted those in the room as his allies and support quite yet. His sister, Lili, gripped Vash's hand in return and said nothing. Jaromir sat in his chair with his jaw slightly agape, clearly not processing the circumstances as reality. He was plain and quiet without his sister—the Nation representing Slovakia—and with her absent from the table, he was just another man with dark hair and traces of a scar across his left cheek.

Ludwig's hands slowly went to his sides, grinding his teeth in seething silence. His eyes roved from face to face, but found no reassurance in anger or otherwise. Finally, his gaze fell upon his Boss, and he too said nothing. Only a feeble shrug of the shoulders.

"Unbelievable. Simply unbelievable." Elisaveta glanced up once at this, but when Ludwig's head whipped in her direction, she immediately looked away. He continued, slamming several manila folders onto the table; "None of you—_none _of you are against this?" Roderich took in a deep breath and began to speak calming words, but Ludwig went on louder than before. "Killing another Nation is not right! Croatia hasn't even touched us, only allied with Russia, and even for all he's done, he is still one of us, sir! We're not even fighting Croatia, we're trying to stay neutral—" Suddenly the blood drained from his face as if just now realizing something important, and his voice grew outwardly fierce; "I _thought _we were trying to stay neutral toward her!" Here the German stole a furious glare towards his Boss, who was looking close to crying freely as Louise was at that moment. A silence. "But I suppose I was the only one who was unaware of this, hm? Germany, the sole superpower you have among you, and you kept me from knowing we were fighting as much as—excuse me, more so than Poland, according to these files here?"

"_Deutschland_, I'm sorry, I should have said—"

"_I though we were neutral toward her_?"

The exclamation brought silence back to the meeting room. No one moved for what seemed like hours. Elisaveta was the first to bring back conversation with a somewhat hissed sentence; "I thought you told him, Herr Werner."

Germany's Boss—a thin, pale man with light, receding hair by the name of Hans Werner—visibly flinched, gave a long sigh, and sunk into his chair. "It...must have slipped my mind."

Ludwig trembled, his jaw taut with fury. "Did it, now? That's quite a significant thing to forget, sir. And quite a feat to perform. Hiding the fact you've ordered armed troops into another country without your own Nation knowing...and another country that has no personal quarrel with us, as it were. I would've thought it impossible." Roderich began massaging his temples. Jaromir blinked, staring silently at the world map hung on the wall to his right. He traced the Mediterranean area with one finger, eyebrows somewhat furrowed. Two tacks were placed on two countries. "Excuse me, Germany...but Croatia is located awfully near Italy."

The room's temperature dropped several degrees.

Jaromir brushed his hair behind his ears, avoiding Ludwig's mortified stare. "I can't help but be suspicious, you see. I hope this whole blowup isn't over the fact that Italy could be damaged if Croatia is...well, for lack of a better word, wiped off the map?" A ghost of a smile flickered across Elisaveta's lips, but it soon withered away into a frown. Herr Werner turned slowly to his Nation and lowered his brow.

"_Deutschland_, is what Czech Republic said correct?"

Ludwig made a strangled noise that sounded vaguely like a protest.

"Italy isn't even an ally, Ludwig." Roderich muttered, gaze barely lifted to Ludwig's level. Ludwig twitched. Louise dabbed at her eyes in futility. Vash looked on the scene as an outsider. Lili's eyes flickered from face to face, unsure of how to stop the growing conflict but confident in her trust that her brother could calm it if need be.

"Not only that, but he's practically surrendered to Russia—"

"He hasn't!" Ludwig bellowed suddenly, gripping the table til his knuckles paled bone-white, "His brother is Russian territory now, that's true, but Felici—erm, North Italy has stayed resilient!" Vash folded his arms across his chest, the very definition of the word 'unamused'. Herr Werner's gaunt face appeared to be growing older by the second before his head slumped, weak and out of view, into his hands. His shoulders seemed to heave a great sigh. "My dear Nation,please keep personal matters from this meeting. I know North Italy and yourself have a...human-like connection, but this is far more important, _Deutschland_. This is life and death."

Elisaveta twitched. Roderich cleared his throat in discomfort. Ludwig simply froze, shocked to have heard such words come from the lips of his own Boss. Herr Werner's emaciated gaze rose to meet Ludwig's, holding him still and listening.

"Your own life. Your people's deaths."

Louise blew her nose noisily into her handkerchief. Ludwig and his superior paid no attention. It was almost as if they were the sole two men in the room.

"Do we understand each other, _Deutschland_?" Herr Werner gave a hopeless, tattered smile; a smile both patronizing and well-rehearsed, patched at the edges with wrinkles from years of use in the profession of politics. Ludwig sat resignedly back into his chair, his will almost visibly wilting inside him.

"Yes, sir."

Herr Werner whistled out a sigh of relief and reached over to pat his Nation's hand in an empty act of apology. "Good boy. Now, ladies and gentlemen, where were we?" The room slowly stirred into life again, ideas being spoken and information being shared. Ludwig caught only bits and pieces as he stared at the manila folders in his hands, some of the phrases he heard being _worse than America's, far worse _and _could bring an entire Nation down with one go _and _could be trouble if anyone else gets hold of them_. The hollow, familiar question of reparation fees was spoken aloud by a rather worried Roderich, but Herr Werner shook his mouse-like head and chuckled weakly. _No need for those_, Ludwig heard, _there won't be much left to repair afterward._ Forced laughter. Elisaveta threw him a pitying stare but Ludwig avoided it. He waited until his Boss adjourned the meeting and left accordingly, hands drawn tightly into fists.

-...-

Ludwig attempted to unlock his house with difficulty, balancing documents and his laptop on one arm while his fingers fumbled around the key using his other, swearing all the while. He soon froze as the task was done for him with the doorknob twisting once in a jerky motion, but relaxed while the door swung open to reveal three dogs as the culprits, tongues lolling with lazy happiness at seeing their master. Ludwig exhaled in relief, set aside his belongings, and kneeled to pat their furry heads. "Who let you all out, hm?" The question was answered by the warm smell of pasta wafting from the kitchen. Ludwig sighed again and got to his feet. "Feliciano, is that you?"

"Oh! _Ciao_, Ludwig! I thought I heard the dogs bark, but I wasn't sure." The Italian answered sleepily, his voice growing in volume as he neared his housemate; a grin was evident in his tone, even out of view. His voice was muted by a German song playing from an old record player, one he vaguely remembered but couldn't name. Ludwig fought back a weak smile of his own and began to hang up his jacket.

"How was your day, ve?" Feliciano appeared in the doorway. Ludwig felt his smile fall almost immediately. "Oh _mein gott,_ Feliciano, what happened?" The redhead startled for a moment, eyes widening as if suddenly remembering his appearance. A long silence. Feliciano shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, wheezing out an awkward giggle. His left arm hung limp and bandaged sloppily against his side. "Well...it's a long story, actually. Can we talk over pasta?"

"Let me see your arm." Ludwig commanded, his voice low. Feliciano hesitated for a moment before holding out his arm with a frown. He sniffled as Ludwig undid the bandages.

Another section of utter quiet. Bruises in the shape of fingerprints. Several areas, horrible gashes held together with stitches. Fingers locked into splints. Ludwig glanced up to meet Feliciano's eyes, avoiding the angry grey-and-purple mark that streaked across one side of his face. "Who did this to you?" Feliciano wiped his nose with his free hand and sniffled again. The German opposite him continued to glare until the Italian crumbled into an answer. "Belarus tried to take my house today. I didn't want to fight her, and I said our Bosses could talk, but she didn't want to listen or something so she whipped out this knife..." He paused for a second, smiling sheepishly up into Ludwig's face. "If England didn't happen to be passing by, I don't know what would've happened, ve."

_They're getting bolder. I'm quite certain Belarus knows Italy is under my protection...is she picking a fight? _Ludwig thought to himself as he re-wrapped Feliciano's wounds, avoiding the other man's curious stare. The German finished his work and met Feliciano's gaze. "Why didn't you call me?"

No response. Ludwig tried again. "Feliciano, why didn't you—"

"Over pasta!" Feliciano blurted suddenly, making all three of Ludwig's dogs and their owner himself jump in surprise at the exclamation. Feliciano seemed to become bashful afterward and continued, his voice significantly softer; "We can talk about it over pasta. Okay?" Ludwig stared for a long while at the man's face before giving a curt nod. Feliciano smiled back, wincing when his grin pressed against the darkening bruise at his cheek. He took Ludwig's hand in his uninjured one and led him to the kitchen, already beginning to prattle on happily.

-...-

"I would have come to help you. You could have just called." Ludwig mumbled as he sipped on his pint of beer, half-heartedly glaring across the table at Feliciano, who hummed and slurped up a fork-full of pasta before responding. "Mmm, but you said you were going to be busy and I shouldn't call unless it was an emergency!"

"You were brutally assaulted by a knife-weilding woman with no backup whatsoever. I should say that would constitute as an emergency, Feliciano." Feliciano just laughed and finished off the rest of his wine with a pleasant flourish. Ludwig glowered down at his meal, scraping the remainders to the side of the plate. Feliciano bent to scratch Aster behind the ear, smiling contentedly and utterly unaware of his partner's train of thought; and a dangerous train of thought indeed.

"Feliciano, if you knew you had only days to live, how would you spend them?" The words had left Ludwig's lips before they could be stopped. Feliciano sat up, surprise at such a question being asked at the table twinging his actions with anxiety. He began tapping his foot, a nervous tic reserved for serious chats. "Um, I don't know. I never really thought of that. Wh-why do you ask?" The Italian's sentences were punctuated with nervous giggles and erratic glances between the doorway and his white napkin, most likely marking the most effective route for a hasty surrender and escape. Ludwig sighed and placed his hand on Feliciano's; physical contact with the man was essential for keeping his attention and nerves at rest. As predicted, the Italian froze and glanced up into Ludwig's face, now more curious than frightened.

"I'm simply curious, Feliciano. There is no need to be nervous." Ludwig paused, patting Feliciano's hand once to mark his statement. "And you don't need to answer if you wouldn't like to." Feliciano shook his head, giving a tired, lopsided smile before gulping down another fork-full of pasta. "No, no, it's fine—you just surprised me is all. You don't usually ask questions like that."

"No." Ludwig muttered, glancing down at the remainders of his drink, "I don't." Suddenly it was Feliciano's turn to fix Ludwig with a stare. Ludwig did not meet it. The Italian took a sip of wine.

"To answer your question...I'd want to spend it eating pasta with you, Ludwig." Ludwig glanced up, startled even though Feliciano's response was predictable as always. Feliciano continued while he rested his chin on his hand, grinning lazily; "And Lovi, too, of course. Then after we ate some pasta, we could go and paint together, all three of us!" The Italian ignored Ludwig's look of distress as he paused for breath, "And after that, we could go to town and buy really nice clothes and shoes and things like that, and then Lovi and I could take our siesta at three o'clock and then Lovi could go home so we could go out again for dinner and gelato! That would be the best day ever."

"And the next day?" Ludwig managed to whisper, eyeing his housemate warily. The man across the table gave a tiny laugh and leaned forward to press a kiss onto Ludwig's cheek, which blushed faintly at the contact even after so many times. "The next day would be even better, ve. I'd spend it alone with you, Ludwig." The table began to seem awkwardly narrow between them in Ludwig's opinion; Feliciano had laid his elbows on it in order to draw closer to the German on the other side. He was smiling again—genuinely smiling—though the action clearly irritated the bruise at his cheek. Ludwig wondered, not for the first time in the many years of knowing Feliciano, how he could manage to do such a thing.

To smile in the face of war.

Ludwig suddenly felt ill. The words of his boss rattled in his head over and over again, _there won't be much left to repair afterward, there won't be much left to repair afterward; _the sentence began to mingle with Feliciano's name, and he soon found himself with the beginnings of a massive headache.

Feliciano blinked in surprise as Ludwig rose from the table. "Lovely cooking as always. I think I'll go take a shower."

"Ooh, I'll come with~!"

The blonde sighed, running a hand through his hair before starting towards the bathroom. He hadn't thought Feliciano was so unobservant as to not recognize when he wanted to be alone. "No you will _not_. Just wait there and I'll be down in a minute." Then again, with another glance at the Italian's face, he felt being alone was the last thing he needed at the moment.

Luckily for him, Feliciano never really was one for following orders.

"You look really pretty when you're relaxed, Ludwig." Feliciano sighed, leaning against Ludwig's shoulder with a peaceful smile; Ludwig growled something in response, cheeks going a deep red. Feliciano chuckled. "_Mi dispiace_, should I have said 'handsome' instead? Because you're very handsome, too." Again, Ludwig grumbled a few words under his breath and crossed his arms. Feliciano's head slipped from Ludwig's shoulder onto his blanketed lap, giggling.

How things had ended up from taking an innocent shower to the bedroom, Ludwig had no idea. It was always a mystery with Feliciano.

"Your hair looks nice down. Without gel and all that." He reached up and petted the German's hair for reassurance. Ludwig did not pull away, half-heartedly glaring down at the man on his lap. "You should wear it like this more often." He heard the record faithfully replay the old German song from earlier once more before ending into tuneless buzzing. Feliciano seemed not to pay any attention, fully devoted to dozing off using his lover as a pillow; his other arm continued to lay limp and bandaged over the blankets. Ludwig felt the unsettling feeling of guilt stir in his chest when he glanced down to it, so he focused on leaning into Feliciano's touch. He could allow himself that much.

Just as Ludwig, too, began to fall asleep, Feliciano seemed to remember something vitally important and sat up with a loud exclamation of excitement; "Ve! Ludwig, I forgot to tell you—just as I was starting to make pasta at your house, Gilbert called!"

Ludwig attempted to make sense of the situation with an intelligent "_Was_?" and rubbed in futility at his sleep-heavy eyes. Feliciano just grinned and lay himself lazily around his bedmate's shoulders, completely unaware of the atmosphere. "_Si_! You know, Gilbert, your brother?"

"_Ja_. He's my brother, how can I not know him?" Ludwig deadpanned grouchily, leaning back against the headboard with Feliciano's added weight. The Italian took no notice of the sarcasm and continued; "He said to tell you to have fun having four arms because the whole nuclear thing really isn't his style, and then he said your boss is building a wall up again, or..." Feliciano's voice quieted considerably when he glanced up to see Ludwig's expression.

"Veee...Ludwig? What did I say?" The German had already began reaching for the bedside telephone, face white as a sheet. He was ignored as Ludwig dialed his brother's number with slightly shaking fingers, and completely drowned out when said brother picked up: "_B__ruder_. what the hell could you possibly want at..." The growled whine that was Gilbert's voice faded for a moment, clearly checking the clock at his bedside, "...12 o' clock?"

"My boss is rebuilding the Berlin Wall?"

Gilbert's long drawn-out sigh crackled over the phone line. "Well, s_cheiße, _who said anything about that? Christ, West, you're so jumpy." Before Ludwig could begin again, Gilbert interrupted; "No, no, he just called me after your little meeting thing and told me he's just moving a lot of people to my place. Eastern side, yeah? Because I'm more awesome than you and all? Yeah. So, Berlin Wall, it's not coming back. Take a chill pill and stop freaking out. _Verdammt._" Ludwig suddenly realized he was pacing the room and sat back down onto the bed, running a hand through his hair. Feliciano smiled in a way that was most likely meant to be reassuring and leaned against his shoulder; Ludwig wrapped an arm around the Italian's waist out of habit. "Gilbert?"

"Yeah, what? Are you gonna yell at me again? 'Cause if you are, I'm hanging up on you—"

"Where are you at the moment? The reception's poor, so you can't possibly still be at England's**—**" Gilbert merely laughed. "Hell no I'm not at Eggy's! That guy's gotten so stodgy it's hard to breathe within two meters of him. He saps awesome like...like an anteater, or somethin'." A pause. "Yeah, no. Not at England's. Shit, no." Ludwig's fingers moved from his hair to his temples. He felt another headache coming on. "If you are not at England's, then where are you, Gilbert?"

"Roderich's, _dummkopf_! Where I've been staying for the last year because Feliciano took my bed**—**not that he needs it 'cause you two always sleep together anyway. Hey, how is he, West? Is he there? Put him on if he is, I wanna talk to him!"

"_Guten nacht_, Gilbert. I'll call you back at a more reasonable hour tomorrow." Ludwig mumbled, fatigue suddenly crashing down on his conscious. Gilbert's squawk of indignation was the last of the connection between the two brothers before Ludwig pressed the 'end' option and set the telephone aside. Feliciano nuzzled against his neck with a pleasant hum. "So, that's good, _si_? No Berlin Wall. Just a little protection from the bad guys." He gave Ludwig's jaw a brief kiss before flopping back onto the blankets, grinning lazily up at his lover. "Nothing to worry about for a while, then. Right, ve?"

Ludwig did not answer. He stared out the window, watching flames flicker in the distance. A far-off bomb siren. The conflict was not on his land, and he was too tired to care. Slowly Ludwig turned from the sight and forced a lopsided smile for Feliciano. "_Ja_. We should sleep."

Feliciano threw his uninjured arm around Ludwig's torso and cuddled closer, sighing against the German's skin. "Don't worry, Ludwig. Everything will be okay. You'll protect me, Russia will give back my brother, the war will end, and we'll be okay." Ludwig blinked. Feliciano suddenly went onto his elbows and brushed his lips against Ludwig's; the next second he was drawing away again and repeating his words, this time much quieter, "We'll be okay, Ludwig."

Ludwig chose to believe him.

How true is it that optimists tend not to be realists, how very true.

* * *

A/N: Translations=  
Deutschland- Germany  
Ciao - hello

Mi dispiace- I'm sorry  
Was – what  
scheiße- shit

verdammt- damn it

Guten nacht- good night

..._I_ am such a major fail. Seriously, I am the worst updater ever. I'm truly sorry, everyone! I don't deserve all your kind reviews. ;A;

hopefully the fanservice/background plot in this chapter was enough to tide you over, though...? Well, you guys won't have to put up with my inactivity for long, because I think I'll be wrapping this fic up in around 5 more chapters. As for the next chapter, which of the introduced characters would you like to see more of? Finland? Japan? Request away~

As always, please review! Reviews are my fuel~!


	17. Keizoku wa chikara nari

**Continuance is strength**

DISCLAIMER: Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.  
Soundtrack: The Last Man- Clint Mansell

* * *

A weather forecast: twelve fourty two o'clock. Tuesday. Temperatures below freezing across the globe. Ash is still falling, take care not to breathe it in.

A man: Wong Yao. Dark brown hair, light brown eyes. The personification of China. Four thousand, one-hundred and twenty-three years old. He has three countries under his rule and likes to pretend all of his five siblings are still alive.

A note: absolutely crucial. This note could mean a lot of things to a lot of countries, but it is currently crumpled into a ball and has not been read for an entire year. It is a proposal.

Yao reached into his pocket. The tattered piece of paper was still there, thank goodness. He drew in a sigh. There was a loud noise from below and Yao put his hands over his ears. A silence, then another cry, this time louder. He buried his face in his arms and wished he were someone else. The screaming stopped. There were words being exchanged. Five loud slamming noises, possibly a person being struck, possibly a gun being fired. Yao did not want to hear it, in any case.

Things had never been better. He should be so happy. The shame should be gone, and yet something still mocked him. Something always did. History was nothing but a cycle.

Quiet footsteps, most likely Kiku's. They stopped at the doorway.

"Yao-san?"

Yao was good at guessing. "What is it, Kiku?"

Kiku was silent for a long while. Yao did not have to look up to see Kiku's head bent in his now-perpetual bow with the smallest of displeased expressions on his face. Yao could easily imagine his assertive black eyes, his pale brow slightly wrinkled and his delicate fingers laced behind his crooked back. Yao almost smiled at the image.

"I am very sorry. So very sorry. Please understand this before being cross with me." The Japanese man explained, his voice—once so persuasive with its smooth tone—cutting the words into sections, butchering them with his burned throat. Yao sat up. He was too tired to glare. "Just say it, Kiku. I don't want..." He took in a long gulp of air, two fingers already pressed to his temples, "...I don't want this to be longer than it already is, aru." Kiku appeared to become increasingly more nervous, brushing his bangs out of his face and itching at his throat. He was very pale, and the red rimming his eyes and fingertips stood out. "Whatever it is that you have to say, I'm sure it can't be worse than what I'm thinking—"

"Your men—" Kiku choked on his words for a moment before continuing, eyes closed tight, "Your men and I killed the Netherlands."

Yao's glass, which he had picked up while Kiku was stammering, fell onto the tabletop and tipped over, spilling its contents across the surface. Kiku instinctively went to mop it up with a handkerchief, but Yao swatted him away and rose to his feet. "The Netherlands is dead? How the hell did that happen, aru?" Kiku's eyes were cast aside, bloodshot, as he struggled to create an answer. Yao grabbed his shoulders and shook the little Japanese man violently. "Answer me, Kiku!"

"I—I—Y-Yao-san, _sumimasen_—!"

"_Answer me_!"

"A-an accident!" Kiku blurted out when Yao had risen his hand. It paused mere inches from Kiku's cheek; Yao released the air that had built in his anger-pinched cheeks and allowed his palm to rest against his brother's hair. The texture of it was tangled and rough, frayed at the edges with burnt strands. "He reached for a gun to...to kill one of your men in order to escape interrogation, and," Kiku swallowed, trying desperately to reinstall his mask of calm, "And he, ah, one of your men, he threw a knife to the Netherlands' arm to defend himself. Th-the others, they started attacking too, out of instinct, and I tried to stop them but they would not, so I had to take..." The man's posture lowered further. He gripped his chalky hands together before him and sighed, a trembling, sad noise; "...I was forced to take drastic measures."

That was possibly the longest sentence Kiku had spoken to Yao. There was no joy in that realization.

"I thought I was shooting one of your men, and I realized too late. It seems the Netherlands had become...human-like in terms of immortality. I tried to stop the bleeding, but..." He paused again, bowing his head once in a gesture of submission, "I cannot convey how sorry I am, Yao-san."

A reconfirmation: Wong Yao now has two Nation under his rule. Kiku Honda, representing the country of Japan, is one of them. Though he is Yao's younger brother, Kiku Honda is suddenly and utterly terrified of him. This could be considered a complete 180 of their relationship seventy years ago.

But I digress.

Yao took hold of Kiku's arm and began to drag. The Japanese man stumbled along behind, though not resisting in the slightest. His expression was vague and his eyelids low. Not a single word was exchanged between them. Drag, drag, trip, right yourself, apologize. Drag, drag. Stairs. Trip. Right yourself. Apologize.

They were in the basement. Finland's house made its cold climate known down there, in the dark; a lampshade hung silently from the ceiling, illuminating the image below like a perfect crime scene. Yao wanted to gag. Five bullet-holes, each in a vital area, matted Theodoor's thin white shirt down to his chest, only recognizable by the painfully blatant red circles surrounding them. His face was unrecognizable due to an ugly slice going from the brim of his nose to the scar that once marked his temple, and another, lazily streaking under his chin and splitting his lip—perhaps the slip of a knife. It was not a professional attack. No, only the bullet-holes were marks of talent. Yao knew this.

"I am so sorry. I did not think. I am so sorry." Yao did not know or care if this apology was directed toward him. He knelt beside the torn Nation and pressed two fingers to Theodoor's neck. The steady, stable thud of a pulse did not greet them. He eased the Dutchman's eyelids closed.

"What does this mean, Yao-san? For the Netherlands?" Kiku croaked, his thin voice wavering with a foreign emotion. Yao shook his head. His hair slipped from its tie and spilled around his shoulders. He was glad for the privacy it brought, glad to hide his face from his brother. He felt his eyes sting and water. "I don't know, aru." He stopped his breath from catching on itself and patted Theodoor's shoulder absently. He had never known the Dutchman particularly well, but a death was a death. Yao had never been good with it. He had never known it, and the mere thought of a Nation becoming so _human_—"I don't know."

"Is the Netherlands no longer a Nation, Yao-san? Will he be replaced?"

Yao choked back his initial response, knowing it to be a lie. "How should I know? I'm not the Netherlands, am I, aru?" The Chinese man hissed, trying and failing to keep emotion from his voice. He wished he had his brother's talent on that behalf.

His eyes were shut when Kiku crouched beside him. His eyes remained shut when a tentative hand made itself known to Yao's back. He did not react when it began to move in comforting circles. Normally Yao would have been perfectly ecstatic at any display of affection from the Japanese man, but fear had a way of murdering happiness in cold blood.

Especially when it had doubt as a reinforcement.

He leaned his head onto Kiku's shoulder and allowed himself the loss of pride to cry for things that would not return. Kiku let him, head bowed in silent contemplation.

A conclusion: Theodoor De Graff is dead. Kiku Honda is guilty of this. Wong Yao does not want to put these two statements together.

A disturbing remark: Wong Yao's economy was booming. Things had never been better.

* * *

A/N: Translations:  
sumimasen- I am sorry

Hoo boy. Another depressing chapter. This one was a toughie to write; I'm not sure I portrayed China very well. The way I see it, he takes everything in a very spiritual sense so even after living for so long, death still upsets him. I don't know, though. Just my take on things.

By the way, Theodoor De Graff=The Netherlands, in case you didn't figure that out. I feel badly about killing him off. Hope you Netherland-fans don't hate me too much! ;A;;

I'll be starting school again soon, so updates will be far less frequent. Taking college-level courses in high school...whoosh.

Thank you all so much for your reviews; believe me, I appreciate every single comment more than you can imagine! Please continue to let me know your opinions by reviewing! Thanks again!


	18. Quel che non ammazza, ingrassa

**What Won't Kill You, Will Feed You**

**DISCLAIMER**: Hidekaz Himaruya owns Hetalia, not me.  
**Soundtrack**: Old Souls- Hans Zimmer

* * *

All good things come to an end. Nothing lasts forever. Death happens.

Not a single one of these expressions makes the death of Austria any easier, though they should have been glad Roderich lasted as long as he did.

Discarded medicinal bottles littered the makeshift tent of fallen trees and blankets. Gilbert's fingernails were caked with blood and dirt when he patted the ground flat, and he muttered an 'amen' for good measure.

Feliciano had been crying for almost ten hours straight. He had been sick twice in that time span.

Elisaveta was pressed against the blackened form of what used to be a tree's trunk, looking smaller than Lovino had ever seen her. The Hungarian had not moved since Roderich's collapse. Her shoulders were weighed down with ash that she did not bother to shake away. The only indication she was still alive was the puffs of mist trailing from her lips with each breath.

Antonio sat with his back turned from the others and a rifle slung over his shoulder, staring into the grey desert that was now Stuttgart. Lovino sat beside him some days, his mouth always gaping for words but never quite finding anything to say.

Other times he thought Antonio would rather be alone and occupied his time with scrounging food from dilapidated supermarkets.

He had long since forgotten to be angry when the others denied his offerings.

Lovino muttered a nearly silent 'hey' as he set himself down beside the Spaniard, eyes trained pointedly away from the newly covered patch of ground, away from the huddled form of Gilbert.

Antonio's cold-split lips gave a tentative smile and he inclined his head in greeting. His fingers, visible from the mitten's frayed seams, were turning blue. Lovino wanted to reach for them and hold them in his—his hands were still warm from the fire he had started not long ago, an inferno that had brought an entire building and those inside to a pile of charred structural bones—but he did not. Something in him wanted to die with the thought of such an intimate gesture in front of Elisaveta and Feliciano.

"You want some ravioli? It's in a can, but it should still be at least decent." The Italian prompted, digging the container from his rucksack and holding it out to the man beside him. Antonio blinked and turned his head from its place almost forcibly, as if his eyes had been locked to an object in the distance. Lovino knew from that look alone that Antonio's sick idea of a vigil was consuming him. It had been the same in the time of the Inquisition.

"Thanks but no thanks, Lovi." His voice was a quiet, Spanish-accented croak, parched and cracked from lack of water.

Lovino shook the can in front of his face for extra measure, eyebrows furrowed. Antonio just shook his head, smiling again. Blood seeped from the strain of the gesture.

Lovino huffed and pried open the metal with his bare hands before tipping it back to consume its contents. Antonio's magnet eyes drew obsessively back to the horizon.

Feliciano's sobs retched from the other side of the camp. Gilbert was pacing nearby, looking up, hands jittering into his pockets for cigarettes that weren't there, twisting his neck to stare at Elisaveta, shoulders twitching, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes, batting at the ashes. Anxiety, anxiety, anxiety.

Lovino suddenly found the words he had been grasping at for several years.

"Antonio," Lovino began quietly, "as cliché as this sounds, do you think this is the end?"

Antonio's answer was automatic. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"And I know damn well that's a lie. You never say what you mean anymore." Lovino paused, glaring into the near-empty container in his hands. He didn't bother recognizing the scathing hypocrisy in his words. "Liar."

That got Antonio's attention. He turned, and the corners of his mouth twitched downward to form a frown, a rare expression for the Spaniard. "You really want my honest answer?"

"Obviously, otherwise I wouldn't have been asking." Lovino wiped his mouth clean of tomato sauce using his sleeve before dragging his finger along the aluminum can's rim to collect any leftovers. He hadn't attempted to make eye contact with Antonio once.

The rifle clicked in the Spaniard's fingers. Lovino couldn't help but flinch.

"Well, then, here's what I think; things get worse before they get better."

The words, the negativity, the pessimism, spewed out of Lovino's mouth before he could think the better of them. "That's a filthy, goddamn lie, Antonio! You don't really think that. You think what I think—we're gonna die. We're gonna die because we can only live on canned crap and shit-filled water for so long. We're gonna die because _everything_ _ends_, goddamn you!" He threw the aluminum can to the ground, face red with spontaneous rage.

Antonio did not move. "That's your opinion, Lovino. It's a shame to see you so pessimistic." He mused aloud, pulling absently at a loose hem of his gloves. Lovino drew in a deep breath and found himself coughing out fragments of crude snowflakes not a moment after. This only irritated him further. He opened his mouth to speak again, but Antonio interrupted him with a sigh; "Maybe you should just try and think of things more positively. We can build up again. It's just a matter of time."

Feliciano began crying again.

"A matter of—Antonio, are you kidding me? Look around you. Do you _see_ anything to build back up again? Because all I see is a wasteland of a world living on its own shit to survive—a world that's taken to _eating people_!" Lovino hissed back as he slipped from his seat beside Antonio and went around to stare the Spaniard in the face.

They looked for a long time; Lovino's eyes were bloodshot and glazed with furious tears by the time he broke the contact. Antonio blinked several times, his long eyelashes batting away the ashes that had clotted them, and exhaled loudly. "Like I said, it's a shame to see you so pessimistic." He whispered, bowing his head. His lips were tearing at the corners.

Lovino raked the back of his hand across his cheek and forced back a traitorous, hitching breath. The colour that had rushed to his face during his rant made him feel faint—an obnoxious side-effect of malnutrition. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to apologize and crawl into Antonio's lap, to allow his hair to be petted and his hand to be held and his responsibilities thrown to the wind.

He did no such thing. The Italian turned on his heel and fled, the rucksack pounding rhythmically on his back. He did not look back to see if Antonio had attempted to follow him.

Lovino was certain the knowledge that the Spaniard hadn't even bothered would kill him.

Half a mile away and he could still hear Feliciano's wailing.

The run came to an abrupt halt when he collided with something warm and human. Swearing, Lovino staggered back before finally falling onto his rear as a very real fist collided with his chin. The contents of his rucksack spilled to the floor and were hastily grabbed up by leather-gloved hands.

"Hey! The hell is your problem, _si maledetto pazzo_—?"

The words crumple on his tongue. Stuttgart's never-ending, flat-as-pancake fields had never seemed so claustrophobic.

Feliks. Feliks _Poland_ Feliks was standing above him, dressed in a cloak made of dusty black plastic. His casual, lazy flamboyancy was gone and replaced with something else, something vague and colourless. One glance at the man to Feliks's right and Lovino wonders if it's possible for a Nation to die of a horror-induced heart-attack.

"_Porca troia_. Germany."

The rifle in the blonde-haired, blue-eyed skeleton's hands could rival Antonio's. The skeleton's shoulders are squared with the same sort of importance, though not with the same pride. His face—a white canvas pulled over a skull and smeared with pink at the cheeks and nose—manages to appear soft and childish somehow, though the gaunt hollows of his high cheekbones ages him considerably. His hair is a ragged mess, hiding his eyebrows from view and twisting greasily down the nape of his neck. His eyes are wider and more gray in colour than Lovino remembers; the shadows beneath them are all too reminiscent of the end of the war. Germany's conclusion.

He is not Ludwig.

"_Ja_. That is my name. Who are you?"

Not even his voice is Ludwig's.

Panic dumbed down Lovino's brain considerably. Actions began happening in slow motion while words were fast, garbled. Germany glanced frequently to Feliks, eyes wide as if he were searching for some sort of guidance, a reassurance that he was doing the right thing. It reminded Lovino of a guard dog, and the image sickened him to the point of bile rising into his throat. Or maybe that was the expired ravioli from earlier. Either way, the thought of vomiting onto Germany's boots was very appealing.

The thought of another fist to the face was not, however, and he found himself swallowing frequently in order to prevent his dinner from escaping.

"Southern Ita—Romano. I'm...my name...Lovino." The Italian stumbled over his words, his palms closing around clumps of ash. His fingers scraped over the icy asphalt beneath and lost half a nail in the process. The usual curse would not come from his lips. Feliks's hazy green eyes lowered to his level, squinting into cat-like slits.

They did not seem to make contact. The Pole was staring at him—no, past him—with blue-tinted pupils. _Blind, _Lovino realized with a horrifying, full-bodied lurch that sent him scrambling backward, boots kicking wildly in order to shove himself away from the sight. Germany's gun snapped to follow his scurrying form, his pale lips no more than a line and his eyebrows wrinkled with uncertainty. Feliks's fingertips pushed the gun's barrel to the floor and spoke. "Romano, huh? Anyone else here with you?"

Germany answered instead, his voice quiet and full of childish devotion; "Not that I can see, Feliks."

Feliks just hummed. The noise was uncommitted and solemn—a terribly uncharacteristic sound coming from the enthusiastic, full-force Pole that Lovino had remembered him as. "I got a question for you, then, Romano. What are you doing here? This is my land, y'know."

"I—I didn't know that. _Mi dispacie._" Lovino whispered in response, unable to bring his voice to its typical bravado. His finger was bleeding now, he was sure. He dragged more clots of ash into his palms and a tiny, stupid fragment of his mind reminded him the ash felt like sand from the Spanish coast. "W-we just got here. We weren't planning on staying, we just—"

"What do you mean, 'we'? There's more of you?" Feliks asked, briefly lifting his head to squint at the horizon. Germany followed suit, concern etching itself onto his features. "Who?"

Lovino's mouth gaped for a response while his nostrils drew in several ash-clogged breaths at once. He repressed the urge to cough. "Elisaveta and Antonio. And me. J-just us." Five more. He choked as Germany's gun whipped over to stare him in the face. "Please don't shoot me."

"What about your brother?"

The gun was pressed to his temple now. Lovino felt his heart stall before picking up twicefold in pace, gushing nervous blood into his nerves. He shook his head.

Gunshot.

_I'm dead, I'm dead, I'm dead, I'm_—

"Nice shot, Poland. Good hearing."

Lovino cracked open an eyelid. Feliks was squinting at something over Germany's shoulder, refilling the pistol full of bullets. "Damn Hunters. They're, like, all over the place nowadays. _Such_ a pain." Lovino's gaze trailed slowly to the face of Germany's gun. It had moved to stare at the ground.

"Hey, Romano."

The Italian's head whipped up. Feliks was leaning in his direction, gripping a can of tinned pears in a leather-gloved hand. "You get the hell out of here, 'kay? My land, my rules, and I say you gotta leave. Sorry. Times are hard. Food supply is down, every man for himself, y'know how it is."

Lovino's eyes, in an attempt to avoid Feliks's, ended up locking with Germany's. The blond skeleton was staring down at him with an expression of such bewilderment that it took years off his face. Lovino stared back. Words came in a jumbled mess.

"Germany, tell me you—Feliciano, goddamn it—my brother, he's so—please don't say you forgot—"

The German's entire body seemed to freeze. Feliks blinked. Lovino scrambled to his feet, grabbed his rucksack, and ran faster than he ever had in his entire life.

He did not stop once. Two miles with his legs cramped and his head reeling and his stomach lurching with every step, but he didn't stop.

He didn't think about it, but he wound up at the camp anyway.

Antonio didn't ask a single question other than _did he have a nice walk, _and_ how about a hug_? Lovino shook his head to both and sat down beside him, barely recognizing the bundled mass at the Spaniard's side to be his brother. He rummaged around in his bag before his hands closed around a thick plastic packet. Packaged spaghetti.

He tore the top and held it out to Feliciano. The olive-skinned hand that took the food was thin as twigs, and Lovino found he wasn't jealous of his brother for once. The idea gave him the sickest sense of satisfaction; his own thriving versus the meek, self-imposed starving vendetta of Feliciano.

Lovino had to physically strain himself to keep the grin off his lips. He blamed it on the adrenaline rush.

Antonio noticed this and smiled at him. "Have a nice walk?" he repeated.

"Yeah, I guess you could say that."

Lovino didn't tell Feliciano that Germany was alive for another three years.

* * *

A/N: Translations-  
si maledetto pazzo- you damn idiot  
Porca troia- holy shit

(geez Romano, you and your dirty mouth!)

I am so sorry, you guys! My muse kept coming and leaving me at random, and then I was distracted by Inception (amazing movie, btw) and there was school...ugh, I'm making excuses. Anyway, I'm really sorry for the super-long wait. OTL

There's been a time-skip between this chapter and the previous, around three to four years. Who saw that one coming, huh? Germany is back, Austria's dying, Romano going a little crazy...what an uplifting chapter! /sarcasmplz

...I hope it isn't too much for people to handle. =7=;;

Anyway...please review! Reviews are fuel!


	19. I know I know nothing

**I Know I Know Nothing**

**Disclaimer**: Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.  
**Soundtrack: **Fur Alina- Sergej Bezrodny/Vladimir Spivakov

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"I don't think you understand, Ar—" Francis began, his tone low and harsh and everything Arthur hated about the Frenchman when he was serious. Arthur interrupted him before another accusation could be flung.

_The mud of the Fronde_, Francis thought.

"There is nothing to understand, you bloody oblivious bastard! If you'd just bloody _look_," he screamed, fully aware of the spittle flying from his lips to punctuate his sentences as he drew an accusing finger to point out the window. "you'd see what's happening here! _We have to leave_!"

Francis's eyes narrowed from behind long-overgrown, greasy bangs. His jaw went taut, dragging his teeth audibly in an attempt to keep his temper. "I can see just fine, thank you, Arthur. I'm not the one going blind."

The Englishman before him jerked his head back as if the insult had been a physical pain. The following rage swept back into him in a rush and before Arthur knew what had happened, his legs completely crumpled beneath him. His vision blurred. He had managed to catch himself on the bedpost and his elbow was throbbing in pain. That was the only thing he could feel, and only that was a dull ache.

Arthur hated the way his breath came in rags and the feeling of his lungs taking a life of their own. The pain was slowly beginning to set in, now. _The flames_, Heracles called them once, and the title was appropriate.

Though Arthur's were not brought on by radiation poisoning as the Grecian's were—or perhaps they were, it was difficult to know without a doctor to confirm—it was not in any stretch of the means less painful. He remembered reading something like it years ago, in the papers.

Inflammatory rheumatism.

This was no rheumatism. This was something else entirely.

Francis stared down at him, too furious to show pity. A nerve in his bearded jaw twitched.

"Well."

Arthur glanced up at the blonde and tried to make his frustration known but his muscles resented any sort of motion, burning when his mouth quirked into a subtle frown. The Briton forced himself to roll onto his side, facing away from Francis.

His fingers pulled at the tile in an attempt to keep hold of his consciousness before they, too, went limp. Pain took the place of movement. He felt London, bridges, buildings, people.

The threads that had kept England—the entire United Kingdom—together were shredding. Arthur knew from the agony in the very fibre of his being, centering itself in his upper spine.

Arthur shut his eyes. His brain spasmed. His grip on the cracked floor tiles slackened.

The sound of Francis sitting onto the creaking mattress above did not move him.

Neither did the sound of Francis standing, Francis spitting directly into his hair, Francis whispering _I hope you're happy_, _mon fou chérie, _Francis pressing angry, chapped lips to his forehead, Francis scraping his belongings and food into a bag and leaving.

Arthur came to six hours later. Francis had not come back.

He struggled to his feet, his trembling, pinched-red fingers gripping the vanity for support.

Francis did not come back.

Arthur waited.

Francis did not come back.

Arthur mumbled many apologies, but Francis never heard them.

Arthur slept in Francis's bed. He combed his hair with Francis's spare brush. He washed himself in Francis's bath with Francis's soap. He wore Francis's clothes till they degenerated into hole-filled rags.

He lived in Francis's house.

Arthur went blind staring out the window one day. He continued his life of spoiled French food—not a significant change from the food he himself used to cook, the Briton noted with a dry laugh—and caring for a dilapidated French home as best he could.

Arthur silently thanked himself every morning for memorizing Francis's house over the years. Arthur not-so-silently pounded at the window over his bed till it shattered and glass dug into his knuckles. It hurt, but not so much as realizing what Francis had been trying to tell him all along.

Alfred wasn't coming back.

His left arm went numb first.

It had hung like a curse at his side when he prepared breakfast. He had expected the nerves to restart at first, as such things had happened every two weeks or so, but after an entire day passed without being able to even flex his fingers, he came to the conclusion that he had essentially lost the use of a limb.

His left foot followed soon after. Still, Arthur thought, it could be worse. He could lose the use of his writing arm. He spent many days writing on handkerchiefs and tabletops and walls and floors and his palms recently. The words were most likely intelligible, and the pen probably ran out of ink two years ago, but it felt nice to have some form of familiarity.

He tossed a bottle filled with a note out the broken bedroom window one day. The sound that followed was not nearly as satisfying as it would against water, as it had back in his pirating days, but it would do.

Some days he would just rest his cheek against a window and wrap himself in the feathery lace curtains and dream. He didn't scream anymore. He smirked with the thought that Francis had caused those nightmares and laughed at the fact he was gone.

Gone.

Everything was very gone, now.

Arthur ended up smashing every window in the house and retreating to the basement where his writing hand went slack in a pool of green paint mid-sentence. The sentence was intended to be part of a story. A little prose.

_If I were a country fair, my eyes would be a colour_

It had been a work in progress.

Arthur was pleased to find Francis had forgotten to hide a crate of wine and truffles. The Briton thanked the fact his tastebuds had died centuries ago and ate an entire box of the chocolates and tipped a bottle of the wine.

The cellar became a cell, but Arthur didn't dare go upstairs. He heard voices from above once. He ate some truffles and willed the intruders to go away, and they did.

When Arthur breathed his last, his expression was proud and not at all unfriendly. One who had not observed what he had gone through, living in Versailles with not another soul for company, would say the man had not suffered a second.

Arthur's letter in a bottle was as follows, in very nearly unreadable script:

To Whom It May Concern, Or If You Are Francis;

Windows are very horrible things. The ones in this house were particularly horrendous so I broke them. So is the food but I ate that. There's really nothing here unless you'd (THE READER AND/OR FRANCIS) like to pop in for a bit—for a spot of tea or the like. I've saved some chocolates if anyone (FRANCIS) happens to read this and fancies a nice chat. I'll be civil. I won't swear or talk about faeries or complain about the food. I'll even lend a kiss if that's what it would take. I am, admittedly, a tad lonely here. It's a very large place, Versailles and this house, and I'm suddenly finding myself too small to enjoy it by myself. It's not a pleasant feeling. Please do consider**—**

The writing becomes blurred and ink is dragged across the paper.

Arthur's name—_The United Kingdom of England, Northern Ireland, Scotland, and Wales, also known as Arthur Kirkland_—is signed without a flaw by the bottom of the shredded paper.

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A/N: Translations-  
mon fou chérie- my foolish darling

OH DAMN THIS CHAPTER IS SO LATEEEE ARGH  
I'm sorry, everyone! And there's not even much to show for my lateness except for this chapter. I fail as a writer. OTL  
Not only that, but this was the worst/most depressing chapter to date. Seriously. I was getting upset just by writing it. Poor England. Like I said, I abuse my favourite characters. ;u;;

Well, you won't have to put up with my late updates and crap for this story for much longer. Two more chapters left. I don't want to drag this out longer than it needs to be.

Anyhoo, please let me know what you think with a review! Thank you very much!


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